


Game of Survival

by VampireInATrenchCoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Creature Dean Winchester, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Apocalypse, Suicide Attempt, Top Castiel, Top Dean Winchester, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 100,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireInATrenchCoat/pseuds/VampireInATrenchCoat
Summary: For years, life was simple. Saving people, hunting things—the family business. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, of course, but it wasn’t complicated, either. Monsters killed people, and Dean killed monsters—simple as that.Only one day, that changed. All it took was one second, just a fleeting moment of distraction during a hunt, for Dean to lose everything he’d ever had, for him to become a cursed creature like the ones he’d spent so many years of his life trying to rid this world of.But perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I started writing this story about seven months ago, and I haven't quite managed to stop working on it since. I know I currently have two other WIPs (I can see you guys judging me from over there), but I already have over 80k words written for this story, and I've gotten to a point where I just really, _really_ wanted to post it, so I thought, why not?
> 
> No need to answer that. XD
> 
> Warning: The first few chapters of this story are pretty strong and heavy, and they contain various mentions of **suicidal thoughts** from a **Main Character**. This first chapter also contains the death of a few minor characters, and a pretty strong scene that might be a bit startling at first, but I assure you, **there will be no Major Character Death** in this story. If you want a more detailed warning about all of that **(with spoilers)** , please check the end notes on this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. The supernatural creatures featured in this story are mostly based on the ones from Supernatural, though I did borrow a few details from The Vampire Diaries, which I also do not own. And finally, the title of this story and the lyrics featured in this first chapter come from the song _Game of Survival_ by Ruelle, which I do not own.

_Who’s in the shadows? Who’s ready to play?_

_Are we the hunters, or are we the prey?_

***~*~*~*~***

**2014**

***~*~*~*~***

Everything hurt. Every single muscle in his body screamed in agony, burning and aching all over, as though he’d been run over by a fucking truck, as if he’d been torn apart and glued back together with duct tape, mended like a fucking broken toy. His head felt like it was about to split open at any second, throbbing in time with every beat of his heart. His arms complained vehemently and his wrists stung sharply where what he could only assume were metal cuffs kept his hands tied together and held high above his head, probably chaining him to the ceiling. He could feel the strain of it in his muscles, in the way his shoulders screamed at him for having had to bear the weight of his body for so long, as his legs had been doing very little to help with that task up until that moment. He hurried to press the tips of his boots to whatever laid beneath him, to whatever firm surface he could find down there, hoping that would at least help support his weight and alleviate some of the strain on his shoulders, arms and wrists.

That did very little to help, however, considering his feet didn’t fully reach the floor and his shoulders and wrists had apparently been in their current positions for far too long, so simply alleviating their burden wouldn’t suddenly make it all better, wouldn't send away all the pain he was feeling, but he didn’t dwell on that for long, because he had something a lot more important to worry about in that moment. First and foremost, he had to figure out what exactly had happened to him. His mind was fully alert just a few seconds after he returned to consciousness, survival instincts instantly kicking in, thanks to almost two whole decades of hunting.

The memories came back soon after that.

Dean had gotten jumped during a job; he remembered it now. He and his Dad had been working a weird case in Superior, Nebraska that Bobby had come across a few days ago, one that didn’t quite make sense—missing people, apparently all random victims, without any connection between them or even a pattern to the disappearances whatsoever. A few bodies had shown up in the woods, completely drained of blood, some of them with claw marks covering their skin, others with their insides all burnt and raw, as though the victims had swallowed hot, molten metal before they’d died. And that frankly bizarre description didn’t fit the usual MO of any monster they knew of, so Dean and John had been mostly doing research for the past two days, looking for more clues, asking around town and trying to make all the pieces of that weird puzzle fit together somehow.

They’d eventually talked to a witness who swore she’d seen some shady-looking figure going into an abandoned building in the north side of town, which just happened to be suspiciously close to the place where one of the missing people had been seen last. The place had been a small office building at some point, but it had been closed off for over a year now and was actually scheduled to be demolished soon, nothing but several months’ worth of dust, a bunch of empty, deserted rooms and a heavy, eerie silence to be found inside.

Dean and John had gone to check out the building—at night, of course—and they’d been looking around inside the place, trying to find anything weird, any sort of clue that could maybe, just maybe help them figure out what kind of creature they were dealing with here, or perhaps even lead them to the damn thing if they were lucky. At some point, though, Dean had wandered off a bit, walking into a narrow corridor with several closed wooden doors on either side of it while John checked out one of the rooms near the entrance of the building. Dean had come across a partially open door at the end of the corridor, which he'd found odd, so he’d proceeded to peek inside, only to find himself staring into a room nearly identical to the one he'd just left his father in.

And that had been when he’d been grabbed. Dean remembered a set of hands gripping his shoulders and pushing him fully inside the room, which had caused the hunter to lose his balance and fall to the floor with a low grunt, flashlight escaping his grasp and clattering onto the floor a few steps away from where he’d landed. He'd heard the sound of the door he’d just walked through slamming loudly behind him, trapping him inside the room with whatever creature had somehow managed to sneak up on him, and his entire body had tensed, ready for a fight. He didn’t get a chance to take a look at the monster that had just jumped him, though. No, he only had a couple of seconds to shout out for help and attempt to scramble back up to his feet, intending to at least _try_ to put up a fight before John inevitably burst through that door and saved his ass.

And then something had hit him in the back of the head— _hard._

He remembered nothing after that.

That did explain the killer headache, though.

Thinking about it now, Dean realized that he had truly made a terrible mistake. This was all entirely, unarguably his own damn fault. He shouldn’t have wandered off on his own like that. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. He should have known better. That was just how hunting worked—all it took was one second, just a fleeting moment of distraction for everything to go to Hell. Dean had learned that lesson over the years, had heard those exact same words from his father more times than he could actually remember, and yet he’d still made what was probably one of the stupidest mistakes he’d ever made during a job—if not _the_ stupidest.

But thinking about what he should have done differently wouldn’t help him now. No, right now, he had to figure out what he would be doing _next._ That was all he _could_ do.

At that thought, Dean blinked his eyes open slowly, intent on figuring out where he was, but the room around him was completely shrouded in darkness, not even a single source of light to be found anywhere, and his eyes struggled to focus on anything properly as he attempted to examine his surroundings. He couldn’t even see any windows, so he was led to assume that there weren’t any, which couldn’t possibly mean anything good.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the lack of light about a minute later, Dean was able to notice that the room around him was small and stuffy, countless random items scattered all over the floor and piled up against the walls—from old, rotting furniture to torn dirty clothes, all of it covered in a thick layer of dust, which had probably taken several years to form. It seemed to be some sort of storage room, probably a basement, but regardless of what it truly was, that room was clearly a place with the purpose of housing all the useless junk someone obviously didn’t want anymore.

Oh, and keep prisoners, apparently, because Dean wasn’t alone. He turned his head to the left, taking in the sight of four other people, and even though Dean couldn't really see them clearly in the dark, the hunter guessed those four were probably some of the eight missing people he and his Dad had been looking for. Also, all of them seemed to be in the exact same position as he was—chained to the ceiling with their arms held high above their heads, metal cuffs closed around theirs wrists, feet barely grazing the cement floor below them.

None of them seemed to be awake, though.

“Hey, any of you guys awake?” Dean whispered, even if he already knew that was a pointless effort, and only a few seconds later he learned that he hadn’t been wrong to assume that. His attempt at calling for the others' attention went completely unanswered, the silence inside the room remaining heavy and absolute, unbroken, and the hunter took that as confirmation that he truly was the only one conscious.

Well, then. Time to figure out how to get out of here.

The first thing he tried was pulling at his restraints, trying to break the chains of his handcuffs or the very old-looking, rust-covered metal bolts attaching them to the ceiling, but the damn things didn’t even budge, though he wasn’t exactly surprised by that. Also, his efforts were far too awkward and weak considering his feet were barely even touching the floor, so he’d really have to find another way. At that thought, Dean focused his attention on the room around him again, trying to find anything that could help him somehow, but the only useful information he gathered from that was the confirmation that there really were no windows in that room and the realization that there was apparently only one escape route—the metal door a few feet away, which, with his luck, was probably locked.

And all of that did absolutely nothing to help him.

Everything was quiet for a while. Over an hour must have passed since Dean had regained consciousness, but so far, he’d made absolutely no progress with figuring out how to get out of that room, or even how to free himself from those damn cuffs—which were really hurting his wrists, by the way. The skin there was already wounded and raw, probably because he was struggling so much against his restraints. But he did his best to keep his cool, to keep calm, to not panic, because his Dad would definitely find him soon. His old man was probably on his way here right now. He’d get out of this one. He’d be fine. He just had to wait.

Dean kept repeating those thoughts in his head over and over again, and he was still holding on to them—maybe a bit more tightly than he probably should—when he heard the sound of footsteps coming from what appeared to be another floor right above that small, cramped room. Someone seemed to be pacing around up there, their feet thumping heavily against the floor underneath them, enough so that a muffled echo of every footstep actually managed to reach the room where Dean and the other prisoners were.

The steps stopped at some point, however, and then Dean was able to hear voices, but they were far too low and muffled, so he couldn’t tell what exactly was being said, couldn’t actually make out any words. What he _could_ tell was that the conversation going on up there wasn’t calm; it actually sounded like an argument. Dean didn’t really care what it was about, though; all that his mind truly registered from that was the fact that there was more than one person— _creature_ , he corrected himself—up there, and that was definitely not a good thing.

It didn’t take long for the footsteps to start up again, only this time they seemed to be growing louder, like whoever was responsible for them was getting closer, and at some point, they seemed to be coming from right outside the metal door of that room, a realization that had Dean feeling his entire body tense up in expectation. He didn’t have much time to prepare himself for whatever was coming, though; he didn’t have the chance to come up with a fighting strategy or to figure out a way to free himself from those goddamn handcuffs, because far too soon that metal door was being unlocked and pushed open, which allowed the hunter to see two people standing right outside of that room—a man and a woman.

A little bit of light found its way into the room through the now open door, and Dean couldn't help but flinch because of it.

“Well, look at that,” the woman drawled as she walked into the room, and Dean instantly noticed that she looked fucking _deadly_. She was wearing all black—from her leather jacket and pants right down to the heavy boots currently concealing her feet. Her hair was also dark—it looked black, but it could also be brown; Dean couldn't tell for sure under such poor lighting—which strongly contrasted with her surprisingly pale skin. She had a smirk playing on her lips and a clear spark of amusement in her dark brown eyes. Dean really didn’t like any of it. “The new meat is awake. You think he’s ready to play?”

The man paused by the door, barely two steps into the room. He, too, was wearing mostly dark clothes, but at least there was a slightly bigger variety of color to his outfit—the shirt partially hidden underneath his black leather jacket seemed to be dark green. He didn’t smile, choosing to simply cross his arms over his chest and shake his head in what appeared to be disapproval. He looked annoyed for some reason, and when he spoke, he sounded like it, too. “I’m still not happy about this.”

The woman huffed, stepping closer to Dean. She lifted a hand when she was standing right in front of him so that she could grasp the hunter's face with her fingers, forcing him to tilt his head backwards, probably so that she could see his face a bit more clearly and from a better angle. Her grip was a bit too tight as she took hold of his jaw, squeezing his flesh just a tad too much, enough so that Dean could feel her long fingernails digging into his skin, probably marking it, though she didn't apply enough pressure to actually break it. “Oh, come on. Look at him,” the woman-creature all but sang, words dragging on her tongue as she spoke, like she wanted to taste each and every one of them before it slipped past her lips, “That face is way too pretty. I couldn’t just _not_ take him. Oh, the _fun_ I’ll have with this one.”

“If he lives,” the man grunted.

The woman’s smirk only widened at that comment. “Oh, I’m sure he will. He looks like a fighter, this one. I’d bet on that horse, and then I’d ride it.” She winked at Dean, finally letting go of his face—a bit too forcefully, however, pretty much shoving it away, which knocked a small surprised huff out of the hunter.

Dean had no idea what was going on here, or what these two were; all he knew for sure was that he didn’t like it one bit. Dread pooled into his gut, washing over his entire body and threatening to suffocate him, growing stronger with every minute that passed and his Dad hadn’t yet shown up to rescue him.

And what if he didn’t come at all? What then? Dean really didn’t like the sound of whatever it was that these two were planning to do to him. Fuck, he’d _seen_ the bodies, and it hadn’t been pretty. Honestly, he would very much rather that they just killed him quickly, right here, right now.

But apparently, he just wasn’t so lucky.

“How are the others?” the man asked from his spot by the door, and that seemed to be enough to prompt the woman to finally move her attention away from Dean.

The woman-creature turned her head so she could eye the other four people hanging limply from the ceiling, completely unmoving and still obviously unconscious. She stepped toward the other prisoners calmly, slowly, examining the other victims carefully with her eyes, until she stopped in front of a young woman—a petite blonde who could not be older than 20. The creature raised a hand and gripped the girl’s jaw just like she had done with Dean’s, turning it to the side, and her eyes narrowed for a moment before she finally let go of young woman’s head, also shoving it away a bit too forcefully, pursing her lips in clear distaste.

“One dead. The others…” She shook her head, eyes moving to look at the other prisoners one more time, though she sounded utterly unimpressed and nonchalant as she spoke, like she couldn’t possibly care less about what she was saying, like this was all just… _normal_ to her. It made Dean sick to his stomach. He really hoped he could get at least one good swing at her face before they killed him. “Not looking so good. Guess we didn’t pick a good town this time.”

“Lilith won’t be happy,” the man commented.

“Lilith’s never happy,” the woman replied easily, not sounding worried even in the slightest, that same smirk from before quickly falling into in place once again as she slowly drifted back toward Dean, pausing right in front of the hunter—a lot closer than he would’ve been happy with, in fact. “And anyway, I’ve got a good feeling about this one. Maybe coming to this town wasn't a complete waste of time, after all.”

“He’s a _hunter,_ Meg,” the man retorted. “And he’s not alone. You shouldn’t have fetched him in the first place.”

“You’re so vanilla, Tom,” Meg replied, tone still very much calm and detached. “You worry way too much.”

“And you’re crazy!” Tom replied. “This is _suicide_.”

Meg scoffed, “Like I said, you worry too much.” She turned around and stretched her hand toward the man-creature, and for some reason, she just kept it there—hovering in the air between them, palm open and waiting. “Now stop whining about everything and give it to me. We gotta do this now if we really want to leave soon.”

Tom hesitated to do whatever it was that Meg was asking him to do, but after a brief moment of glaring, he sighed resignedly, shoulders sagging in defeat before he reached into his jacket and pulled out something from what Dean assumed was an inside pocket.

As the man-creature held up whatever it was that he’d just fished out of his pocket so that he could give it to Meg, Dean was able to get a glimpse of it, and as soon as he realized what exactly he was looking at, the hunter felt his insides freeze, body suddenly flooded with raw, potent _dread._

It was a syringe, filled with some sort of dark red liquid, which looked _way_ too much like fucking _blood_.

Oh, no. _Hell_ no.

“What the hell is that?” Dean finally found his voice to speak, though it sounded far too low and croaky for some reason, which annoyed him greatly. His eyes, however, were sharp and completely alert as he watched Tom wordlessly hand Meg the syringe, following the pair's every movement with unwavering attention.

Meg smiled at the hunter once she was finally holding the clear plastic body of the syringe in her hand, that dangerous spark in her eyes even more obvious now, so much that it was actually unnerving. Dean felt his stomach sink down to his feet at the sight.

“Something to make you big and strong,” she replied, still smirking. “You see, we’re running a little experiment here, for a… a friend.” Tom snorted behind her, but said nothing, and Meg completely ignored him. “This here,” She held up the syringe, tapping the side of it a few times with her forefinger, briefly filling the air of the small, stuffed room with the dry sound of her long, pointy fingernail thumping against the object’s plastic body, “Is a magic little thing that’ll make you just like us.”

Dean felt his mouth run dry at those words. His heart skipped a beat inside his chest, before picking up a faster, pretty much desperate rhythm, hammering almost painfully against his ribcage, so loud that he could actually hear it. But somehow, he still managed to ask, “And what are you?” His voice trembled a bit as he pushed those words out of his mouth, easily giving away just how nervous and afraid he was feeling in that moment—as if his loud, frantic heartbeat hadn’t already accomplished that on its own—but surprisingly, Dean couldn’t really find it in himself to care about that. He felt truly _terrified_ , panic quickly settling in, and he knew that trying to hide his internal turmoil would do absolutely nothing to help him right now. It would just be wasted energy at this point.

Fuck, he had to get out of here. He had to figure out a way to… to break free from those cuffs, and then to kill those two… _things_ , whatever they were. He had to… He couldn’t fucking…

Where the _hell_ was his Dad?

“Something you’ve never dealt with before, I’m sure.” Meg’s smirk widened even more, and she lifted the syringe a little bit higher in the air, letting the side of the cold, metal needle brush against the hunter’s skin—lightly and without actually breaking it, without actually letting the sharp, pointy tip bury itself into his flesh. Dean didn’t quite manage to hold back the shudder that sensation caused, and he hated that the involuntary reaction seemed to please Meg. “We’re a relatively new breed—or rather, a mix between two species you certainly know all too well.”

Dean frowned at her, honestly confused by her rather vague explanation. His mind took a moment to understand the meaning behind her words, until it finally clicked.

“You’re hybrids,” he guessed. It would explain all the freaky stuff happening in this town, at least. They really weren’t dealing with normal monsters here, then. They were dealing with a _mixed_ _breed_.

“Bingo,” Meg practically purred. She seemed very pleased that he’d guessed it so quickly. “You see, vampires are strong and fast and all that, but the sun’s still a bit of an issue for them, not to mention that they’re pretty unstable. And werewolves? What good are their powers for if they can only be used at maximum capacity once a month? But if you mix those two together, you know what you get? A vampire immune to the sun, a werewolf that can turn at will, at any time, no full moon required. And a hybrid is stronger, too, faster, and _a lot_ harder to kill.” Her smile widened even more, and suddenly she looked almost… smug, for lack of a better word. “You’ve got the perfect beast.”

Vampires and werewolves—yeah, that made sense. Corpses drained of blood, sometimes covered in claw marks, all of them found in the woods. This really explained everything.

Well, except for the ones with their insides all burnt and raw.

Dean had never heard of such creatures, though. Sure, from time to time he'd hear a rumor about some kind of hybrid showing up somewhere, but most of those usually turned out to be fake, or something else entirely. And he'd never heard anything about vampire-werewolf hybrids. He'd never thought something like that could even exist, really, and briefly, he wondered how that particular mixture had even happened in the first place, because as far as he knew, vampires were sterile, and you couldn't simply turn one creature into the other. It just didn't work like that.

At any other time, under any other circumstances, Dean knew that a joke about "werepires" would be jumping right out of his mouth in that moment. If his throat hadn't been feeling so painfully dry and his heart hadn't been trying to jump right out of his chest, that snarky comment would slip past his lips easily, just as his mouth curled into a cocky, lopsided grin, because that's how Dean usually dealt with monsters—he did his best to act confident and unafraid, absolutely refusing to show weakness, normally mocking the creatures right to their faces.

But here, right now, it felt different. In that moment, Dean felt _so fucking terrified_ that he couldn't even bring himself to say anything at all.

This was bad. This was very, _very_ bad.

“Some people don’t survive the change, of course,” Meg continued, once again sounding unnervingly calm and nonchalant, completely ignoring the hunter's very obviously panicked state, “Actually, most of them don’t. Their bodies don’t accept it, and they just… die, with their insides all bloody and raw. It’s kinda gross, really.” Well, _that_ explained it, then. “But you? Well…” She pulled the syringe away from Dean’s neck, adjusting it in her grip, curling her hand more carefully around it. “I’ve got high hopes for you.”

And before Dean could react to her words, before he could do anything at all, she jammed the needle of the syringe right into the meat of the hunter's neck.

It burned—that was the first thing that registered in Dean’s mind. Whatever had been inside that syringe felt like freaking battery acid once it flowed into his body, forced into his bloodstream as soon as Meg pushed the small piston inside the syringe forward with her thumb. And it spread fast, too—it was only a matter of a few seconds until Dean felt his entire body burning up, like his blood had suddenly been replaced by hot, molten metal.

And it hurt. It really, _really_ fucking hurt.

So Dean did the only thing he could do, the only thing he was _capable_ of doing in that moment.

He threw his head back and screamed.

***~*~*~*~***

Days. It went on for fucking _days—_ he was certain of it. Dean couldn’t tell how many exactly, though, not when all he felt throughout that entire time was that excruciating, unending _pain._ Even something as simple as breathing hurt so much that it was pretty much unbearable. The feeling of the air flowing through his airways was like shards of glass dragging against his insides with every mouthful Dean pulled into his lungs and carefully let out, tissue seeming to rip and tear with every breath.

If he’d had any doubts that this house (or whatever the fuck it was; he didn’t exactly care about it at the moment) must be some isolated, faraway place, those doubts were completely gone now. There was just _no way_ that no one had heard his screams if there were any other constructions nearby, so they were probably out of town somewhere, maybe even in a farmhouse or something.

It was weird, though. The pain oscillated, going from hot to cold almost randomly, dancing between the two extremes without a pattern, several times a day. For hours, Dean would feel like he was literally freezing to death, cold tendrils of pain spreading over his insides and grasping his heart in an icy fist, squeezing it way too tightly, as though trying to make it burst. And then all of a sudden, without a warning, the heat would take over, like a wave of lava pouring into his veins, melting him from the inside out, as though trying to turn him into a pile of hot, useless mush.

He lost count of how many times that change between hot and cold happened, but far too soon he felt like he just couldn’t take it anymore, felt like he’d rather die than go through it again, and then he had to endure it about a hundred more times.

Meg and Tom came and went, but Dean couldn’t hear what they said most of the time with his ears ringing as they were, though sometimes he managed to catch a few snippets of their conversations.

“—he’s getting closer. Don’t you think we should—”

“They’re all dead, but we still have to wait. We can’t just—”

“—in town. We can’t just wait for him to find us! And the hunter, too—”

“I’m not worried about him. If he can’t even—”

“You know what our orders are. We can’t just—”

“We can’t move him now. The change is almost over. We’ll be gone soon.”

That last one worried Dean the most, of course, but he couldn’t exactly inquire about it, couldn’t complain or argue, couldn’t tell them to just fucking _kill_ him already, because that would be a whole lot better than this. He couldn’t speak at all. He couldn’t do _anything_.

No, all he could do was endure that pain, scream himself hoarse and hope it would all be over soon.

All he could was hope that he wouldn't survive this.

***~*~*~*~***

Dean must have lost consciousness at some point, because the next thing he knew was that he was waking up, even though he couldn’t remember the moment before he’d passed out. It took a while for the fact that he wasn’t feeling any pain—not even when he breathed—to truly register in his mind, but eventually he realized that he was no longer trembling or thrashing or screaming. He was _lucid_. Fuck, he could _think_ again. He felt a little sore, true, but that was truly nothing compared to the Hell he’d been subjected to throughout the past few days.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings again, blinking a few times and glancing around the room, struggling to make his vision focus properly at first, though that was a lot easier to do this time—unnervingly so, actually. The room seemed a lot brighter than before, too, even though he still couldn't see a single light source anywhere. He turned his head, only to learn that the other four people who’d been in that room with him before were long gone, and he had a feeling that wasn’t a good thing.

Oh, and he wasn’t alone.

“Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty,” Meg drawled from where she was currently leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, her smile just as unnerving as it had been the first time Dean had seen it. “I knew I was betting on the right horse. I mean, look at you, all…” She let her eyes roam over the hunter's body in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl, “Healthy and all.”

“Bite me, bitch,” he growled, anger and hatred simmering hotly underneath his skin at the sight of her, but he startled himself when an actual fucking _rumble_ echoed from inside his chest, which sounded _way_ too much like a freaking animal growl.

Shit. _Fuck_ , it worked. It fucking _worked_.

He was… He was actually a...

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Maybe later, big boy,” Meg purred as she stepped toward him, still smirking. “We’re kind of in a hurry, actually.” She reached up, and with one quick, easy tug to each end, the cuffs broke, snapping easily, as if they were made out of fucking paper instead of actual metal, finally allowing Dean to lower his arms and his feet to reach the floor. Briefly, Dean noticed that the wounds on his wrists, the patches of raw, bloody tissue that the cuffs had bitten into his flesh were gone, the skin there completely healed, as if there had never been anything there to begin with, but the hunter didn't allow himself to dwell on that fact for even a single second.

He took his chance.

Dean moved before Meg could react, shoving her backwards and finally acting on the urge he'd felt days ago, delivering a powerful punch right to her face, fist connecting easily with her jaw. When he went in for a second punch, however, swinging his arm through the air as quickly as he could, Meg grabbed his wrist before his closed fist could find her face again, easily twisting Dean's arm behind his back with a kind of strength he had no hope of matching.

The hunter (could he even still call himself that?) groaned as he dropped to the floor on his knees, landing heavily on the hard cement. “I thought… we were supposed to be the same now,” he commented, words coming out low and a bit strangled.

“Not yet, Ken Doll,” Meg replied, and she sounded _amused_ , for fuck’s sake. Dean could actually _hear_ the smirk in her voice, and that only made him even angrier. “There’s something we gotta do first.”

She tugged at his arm, pulling him backwards roughly, and Dean had no other choice but to get back to his feet, before stumbling his way toward the door of the room and up the narrow staircase that led to the floor above. Meg kept a firm grip on his arm as they walked, pinning the limb almost effortlessly against the hunter’s back, directing him down a small hallway once they reached the top of the stairs—and they’d really been keeping him in the basement, he noticed—then into what appeared to be the living room of the house.

Dean glanced at a window, and he noticed it was night outside. There were no lights on anywhere inside the house for some fucking reason, nothing but faint moonlight bathing everything around him, but Dean could still see perfectly fine, like he had fucking night vision or something, and that realization made his stomach sink down to his feet.

Tom was in the living room, sitting on an armchair by another window, and on the couch, sat a young girl—probably just a teen, really—her arms and legs tied up with rope, her eyes wide and filled with fear. There was a dirty cloth tied over her mouth and around her head, keeping her quiet.

Dean already hated everything about it.

Meg shoved Dean as soon as they walked into the living room, and he fell to the floor with a low grunt, stretching his free arm in front of himself quickly and just in time to break his fall and avoid hitting his face on the wooden floorboards right in front of him. He turned around quickly on his spot on the floor, lifting his head to glare at Meg.

“Now, Dean, don’t be so grumpy,” she all but sang at him in response. “We even got you a gift.”

Meg laughed—actually _laughed,_ like this whole thing was just completely _hilarious_ to her, the fucking psychopath—as she crossed the living room, grabbing the poor girl by the hair and forcing her to stand up. The girl was small and brunette, and she could barely even walk with her legs tied up together as they were, but she had no other choice but to comply, hopping on her joint feet to keep up with Meg as the hybrid pulled at her head and practically dragged her across the room toward Dean. The girl was clearly struggling not to lose her balance and fall as she moved, and when Meg shoved her, she fell to the floor right in front of Dean with a tiny little pained whine.

She was crying, Dean noticed, as she was obviously aware that this wasn’t a good situation to find herself in, and when she finally lifted her head, the look in her eyes was begging,  _pleading,_ like she was silently asking him for help. The whole scene tugged painfully at Dean's heart.

“Have at it, Dean,” Meg told him. “She’s all yours. You feed, you finish the transformation, and then it’s all puppies and rainbows. How does that sound?”

“Fuck you,” Dean growled out. “You can go to Hell. How does _that_ sound?”

Meg smiled, apparently amused by the hunter's sharp retort. “Now, don’t be like that, Dean. We do like to play with our food, but now you’re just being rude.” She crouched, probably so that she was at eye-level with Dean and the girl, and suddenly face changed. Her eyes—well, just her irises, really—turned golden without a warning, shining unnaturally like they had their own light coming from within them somehow, just like a werewolf’s eyes, though the white of her eyes turned red as blood seemed to quickly seep into the tissue, like a vampire. And when she smiled again, Dean saw her sharp, elongated fangs—four of them, two on her upper jaw and two on the lower one, right where her canine teeth should be. Unlike a werewolf's teeth, however, her two upper fangs were noticeably bigger than her lower pair.

And in the next second, Meg sunk her teeth right into the girl’s neck.

The girl screamed, the sound loud and terrible even if it came out muffled by that cloth, tears quickly filling her eyes, pooling into them and making them glisten, creating wet trails on her skin when they started to slide down her cheeks. She was practically sobbing when Meg finally pulled away from her, letting out another pitiful little whine when the hybrid shoved her toward Dean, and without a thought, the hunter caught her, hands grabbing at the girl’s middle and shoulder out of pure instinct, trying to prevent her from falling to the floor again.

And then he realized that had been a mistake.

He could smell her blood—that was the next thing he noticed. It was sweet, alluring, truly the most mouthwatering thing he’d ever smelled in his entire life, like he’d just gone actual _weeks_ without eating anything and someone had just dropped the most delicious apple pie in the whole freaking world right in front of him. He could also hear the girl’s heartbeat—a steady, loud, frantic _thump, thump, thump_ that seemed to make everything else around him fade into nothing, completely taking over Dean’s mind, like a song that appealed to every single nerve in his body, like the sweetest, most hypnotizing lullaby, which made him deaf to anything else but the sound of it, even to his own thoughts. He couldn’t look away from the bite mark on the girl's neck, from the thick layer of blood currently coating it. His mouth felt dry, like he hadn’t drunk anything in days, and suddenly all he wanted to do—all his _body_ wanted him to do—was have a taste, just… just a small, harmless little taste…

“No,” he growled, shaking his head and closing his eyes shut tightly, figuring that if he wasn’t actually _seeing_ the blood, then it should be easier for him to resist this, to _fight_ it. And yet, Dean found that he couldn’t quite make himself pull away from that girl, as much as he wanted to. Fuck, he could still _smell_ it. The beast within him roared, snarling and scratching at the walls of his mind, telling him to just _take, take, take, just have a **taste** , _but he couldn’t…

He hadn’t fed yet, so if his Dad showed up now, maybe they could still fix this. They could try to find a cure. Dean had heard about it—there were cures for both vampirism and lycanthropy out there. Both curses were reversible before the unlucky newly-turned fed, before the first mouthful of blood or the first human heart, so maybe there was something that could work for a hybrid—a potion, a spell, _anything_. They just had to look for it. Maybe he could still be saved.

So he had to fight this. He couldn’t give in. He _wouldn’t_.

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Meg asked, voice sounding a lot closer than it’d been before, but the hunter refused to open his eyes and look at her. He refused to see the victorious look on her face, that sick, satisfied spark in her eyes when she noticed just how much he was struggling, when she realized that he was barely even keeping it together.

But most importantly, he couldn’t look at that bloody bite mark again. He just _couldn’t._

And still, despite his efforts, despite how much he was actually fighting the new instincts currently bubbling up inside of him, simmering hot and insistent underneath his skin, Dean could feel his self-control slipping between his fingers, becoming as solid as smoke as his resolve slowly crumbled to dust. His hands were shaking, muscles trembling as his mind warred against his newly acquired instincts, but no matter how much he wanted it, no matter how hard he tried, he just _couldn’t move away from that girl._

“You feel it, don’t you?” Meg whispered, breath tickling the skin of his right ear, voice low and husky, almost a purr. Dean winced at the sound of it. “That pull, that _urge_ to just tear her throat out right here and now. You want it. You _need_ it, and you know it, so why fight it, Dean? Why resist?”

“I’m not…” His voice broke, failing. He swallowed, still feeling his throat far too dry, as if it were made of freaking sandpaper, but he still managed to force a few words out of his mouth when he tried to speak again, “I’m _not_ a monster.”

A low, throaty chuckle rang through the air. Meg’s next words were practically _breathed_ into his ear, sending a chill down the hunter's spine. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dean.”

And before he could react, before he could try to do anything about it, Dean felt Meg’s hand gripping the back of his head, tightening around a big tuff of hair it found there. She pushed his head forward, and while the hunter did tense up in order to try and fight the movement, he wasn’t strong enough to stop it completely.

Dean's lips brushed against the warm blood coating the girl’s skin just barely, just for a second, but he still gasped at the contact, pulling away from her immediately. He was pretty surprised when Meg actually allowed him to move his head back a few inches, since he’d expected her to fight the movement, to hold his head completely still, but a second later Dean realized why she hadn’t even tried to stop him.

Moving away from the girl so abruptly didn’t help him in any way—it did absolutely _nothing_ for him, actually—because now the smell of her blood was _right there,_ right under his nose, and he could actually  _feel_ some of that blood clinging to his lips, coating his mouth. His heart was beating rapidly inside his chest by then and his head was spinning so fast that it made him dizzy, and no matter how many times he told himself not to do it, to just stay still, to not move even a _single fucking muscle_ , before he could actually process what he was doing, before he could _stop_ it, his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick at his lips, just to get a little _taste,_ because _what was the harm in that?_

It was exhilarating. Just that single drop of blood was already enough to fill Dean with such joy, with such _relief_ , like there had been a hole inside of him, deep and dark and empty, _painful_ even, and suddenly he’d found a way to fill it, to ease that awful ache that seemed to reach down to his very soul.

His breathing grew heavier, heart picking up an even faster pace as every single nerve ending in his body seemed to come to life, lighting up in the most delicious way as the curse took root, as it dug its claws into him permanently, burying themselves so deep into his flesh that Dean knew there was no way they would ever be pulled out, but in that moment, he didn’t have enough presence of mind to truly process what that meant. Right now, he couldn’t find it in himself to _care_.

For a few seconds, Dean felt his mouth hurting, a sharp pain suddenly blooming in his gums and echoing in his jaw, like his flesh was being torn apart, like there was something cutting his gums from the inside, ripping the tissue somehow, and before he could stop it, another growl emanated from deep within him, echoing inside his chest, this one even louder than the last. His eyes also felt weird, tingling in a way Dean had never felt before, though while the sensation was odd and confusing, it wasn't painful by any means, so Dean didn't worry about it too much.

And in the next moment, without any prompting from Meg whatsoever, without even a single _thought_ , he was moving forward on his own and biting right into the girl’s neck.

He couldn’t stop it, even if he’d had enough presence of mind to try, even if he still had even the smallest shred of self-control left in his mind. But he didn’t, and in a way, it truly was like Dean was no longer in control of his own body, like he was suddenly watching that whole scene unfold from outside of it, like an unseen bystander. His nerves endings were suddenly on fire, completely overwhelmed with ecstasy as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of that warm, _delicious_ ambrosia, barely even stopping to breathe, just sucking and swallowing and groaning lowly in his throat at just how fucking _amazing_ it tasted.

He could hear something, muffled sounds that almost sounded like screams or shouts, or maybe even cries, but they seemed to be coming from far, far away, so they were probably not important. He also felt the form in his hands moving, wiggling and thrashing in his grasp, so he tightened his grip around it, forcing it to stay still, and he felt something snap as he did it, like he’d broken part of it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that, either.

It was over far too soon. The warm body Dean had been so firmly grasping in his hands suddenly went completely limp in his hold, and it fell to the floor like a ragdoll the moment he let go of it.

And as Dean sat there, panting on the floor as he struggled to catch his breath, heart beating far too fast inside his chest, warm, fresh blood covering his mouth and dripping from his chin, he finally came back to himself.

And then the panic settled in, flooding him as soon as his mind finally registered what had just happened, what he’d just _done_.

He’d killed her. The girl… she was dead, her eyes glassy and empty as they stared up blankly at the ceiling overhead. Her heart was awfully silent, chest unmoving, without even a single breath of air being pulled into her lungs, without a single sign of _life_.

“No…” he whispered, shaking his head weakly, eyes burning as that realization finally settled onto his shoulders, the weight of it truly _suffocating._

He’d killed her. He’d… He'd actually...

He _was_ a monster.

A pat on his shoulder made Dean jump. He turned his head quickly, fixating his tear-filled eyes on Meg, who was slowly getting back to her feet. She’d been crouched right beside him throughout that whole thing, it seemed. Dean had forgotten she was there at all, honestly. “No need to be a baby about it, big guy. You’ll get used to it.” She walked over to Tom—who had apparently stood up from the armchair at some point—turning her back on Dean and the dead girl. “Now, do you think we should—”

Gunshots filled the air without a warning. Out of instinct, Dean ducked, lifting his arms above his head to try and protect himself in a completely thoughtless reaction. The shots were way too loud, and he winced when the noise hurt his ears.

A heavy thump and the sound of glass shattering filled the air just a moment later, and then there was silence, save from one heartbeat—one that sounded far too fast and loud, coming from the opposite direction of where Meg and Tom had been standing. As soon as he realized that, Dean dropped his arms, lifting his head and turning it so that he could look around and try to understand what was going on.

Tom was on the floor, completely immobile. His eyes were closed, and his shirt was stained with several spots of crimson, the fabric of it torn where the hybrid had clearly been shot, several bloody holes littering the region where his heart should be. There was no sign of Meg anywhere, but the broken window a few steps away left Dean with a pretty good guess about where she’d gone

And by the door of the room, with a gun ready to fire and aimed right at Dean, stood his father.

John’s eyes were wide as they darted back and forth between the two corpses and his son, his gaze hard and calculating, and Dean had no doubts that he’d already pieced together most of the puzzle that lay right before him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what exactly had happened here, especially since Dean still carried the girl’s blood on his face, painting the skin around his mouth like a silent confession to the murder he’d just committed.

“They’re hybrids.” The words jumped from Dean’s lips before he could stop them, because he knew that he had to get whatever he wanted to say to his father out quickly, while he still had the chance. “Half-vampire, half-werewolf. They… they turned me,” he added, as if that last part wasn’t obvious already.

He glanced at the girl briefly, then closed his eyes, feeling them burn with unshed tears, but he held them back, refusing to cry in front of his father, even with everything that had happened here tonight. The memory of the teenager thrashing against him, most likely screaming as she did it, clearly begging for her life while he drained her to the very last drop of her blood, was still far too fresh in his mind, and he couldn’t quite push it away now, like the whole thing was branded behind his eyelids, a dark shadow haunting his every thought. His voice came out like nothing more than a feeble, pained, trembling whisper when he added, “I killed her.”

He lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at his father again, as difficult as that was to do in that moment, but instead of the disgust he’d expected to see in John’s gaze, of the pity and disappointment he knew he deserved, all Dean found there was sadness and pain.

Still, he pleaded, “Kill me.”

John’s hands were clearly shaking around his gun, and there was a noticeable waver in his voice when he let out a low, choked, “Dean…”

“Just do it, Dad, please,” Dean begged. His voice sounded strained and rushed as he forced the words out of his mouth, because he _had_ to say them, before his resolve crumbled again. He didn’t have a choice here. “I _killed_ her. There’s… there’s no going back from this, no cure that can work for me now. I…” No cure they knew of would work now that he’d fed, and they both knew that. There was only one way to fix this, and they both knew what that was, too. He shook his head, swallowing thickly. “Just do it. Please, Dad. Just make it quick.”

John didn’t shoot. His finger tensed over the trigger, but he didn’t actually pull it, jaw clenching repeatedly as he hesitated. His eyes were heavy, also shining with unshed tears, but they were also filled with something Dean couldn’t quite identify, with far too many emotions for him to read, though he didn’t actually try to figure out what each of them meant. It hurt too much.

“Dad, please,” he tried one last time, _“Please.”_

John hesitated for another brief moment, for just a fleeting second, until a shadow covered his face, draping over his eyes and making his features grow considerably darker all of a sudden. The man squared his shoulders and stood up straighter, clenching his jaw again. His eyes grew harder, his gaze suddenly turning sharp and determined, like he’d just made a decision.

And then he finally pulled the trigger.

***~*~*~*~***

He was in a car—a _moving_ car, actually.

That was the first thing that registered in his mind when Dean came to again—the sound of passing cars, the steady but almost imperceptible movement of the seat right underneath him, the low rumble of an engine. There was no way to mistake any of that for anything other than what it truly was, especially since he’d spent most of his freaking life inside a moving car.

However, those thoughts were quickly followed by a wave of confusion as soon as Dean remembered what had happened with his father, as soon as the memories of the last time he’d been conscious suddenly came back to him.

So he jumped in his seat, entire body tense, eyes opening quickly. He started glancing around frantically, trying to figure out where he was, and soon enough he realized that he was in the passenger seat, and that there was only one more person with him in that car—a man, about the same age as him, who was currently driving the car. The guy wasn’t looking at him, though—no, he seemed very much focused on the road, so Dean could only see his profile, with his sharp jaw and nose and a mess of dark hair covering the top of his head, which could really profit from meeting a freaking brush. Oh, and he was wearing an ugly tan trench coat that seemed way too warm for the current weather.

Through the clear car windows, all Dean could see was nothing but the road ahead, with open fields on both sides of it—green and wide, spreading as far as he could see, a few solitary trees here and there. The sun was hidden behind a few clouds, but the limited brightness provided by the few rays of sunlight that somehow managed to get through was still enough to hurt his eyes. His head hurt a bit, too, but he chose to ignore that for now.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean demanded, voice coming out low and sharp.

The man didn’t jump at the sound of the hunter’s voice, even if he’d seemed pretty distracted; he didn’t even seem startled by it at all, in fact. He just turned his head for a brief moment, a pair of startlingly blue eyes finding Dean for no more than a second before the man focused them back on the road ahead. He didn’t slow down the car at all as he did it, and he kept both of his hands where they were, firmly gripping the steering wheel right in front of him.

“My name is Castiel,” the man replied, tone awfully calm and casual, like there was nothing wrong in the world. “And yours?”

Dean frowned at the man, hesitating for only a beat before answering, “Dean.” He figured there was no harm in giving this guy his real first name, considering he didn’t exactly have anything to lose anymore. His current situation couldn’t _possibly_ get any worse.

And, well, his mind was still way too weird and muddled, and he couldn’t think of a single fake name that could have sounded even a tiny bit believable in that moment.

Castiel nodded slowly, but didn’t add anything.

So Dean asked, “How am I here? I…” He paused, hesitating for just a second before he blurted out, “I’m supposed to be dead.” He didn’t know who this guy was or what he knew, but he figured that he had to know _something_  if he had Dean in his car, for some fucking reason.

And as it turned out, his guess had been correct.

“You were shot in the head with a silver bullet,” the man explained, the words rolling off his tongue calmly, easily, like he was talking about what he’d eaten for breakfast or something, “But that’s not enough to kill a hybrid. A werewolf, yes, but vampires heal remarkably well from head wounds.”

Dean lifted a hand up to his forehead at those words, touching the spot where he believed that bullet must have pierced his skull, but he found nothing more than soft skin and some dry blood there, not even a single hint of a wound left to the story.

“I removed the bullet, or else you’d be in quite a bit of pain right now. Trust me—taking a bullet out of your head with your own bare hands is _not_ a pleasant endeavor.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose up to his forehead at that comment, and suddenly there were countless alarms ringing loudly inside his head, because those words sure as hell didn’t make this guy sound human. “What are you?” he asked, voice growing lower and sharper as he eyed the man warily from his seat

Castiel responded without a beat of hesitation, apparently completely unaffected by the clear shift in Dean’s demeanor. “I’m like you, another… victim of Meg and her brother.”

Oh, so they’d been siblings, then? Dean hadn’t even thought about that, honestly.

And why the fuck was he thinking about it now? He didn’t _care_.

“So you’re a hybrid, then?” he asked, eyes glued to the side of the other man’s face, measuring his reaction.

Castiel’s answering nod was slow and careful, and he didn’t look at Dean before, during or after it, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the road.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “But how the hell am I here? My Dad, he… how did you get through him?” Dread poured into Dean’s gut as he asked that last question, because he hadn’t thought about that until now. Fuck, if this guy had hurt his Dad…

Castiel shook his head quickly. “I had no interaction with your father, Dean. I actually saw him around town the day I got to Superior, and I instantly knew he was a hunter, but I assure you, I didn’t do anything to harm him. He was asking around, trying to find the place where Meg and Tom had taken you. I figured he was trying to rescue a hunting partner, or at least someone pretty important to him. He seemed a bit... distressed, and tense. I could see he was afraid and worried, but he was trying to keep calm whenever he questioned someone, whenever he talked to another witness.”

Maybe the thought that John had been so worried while he’d looked for Dean, that his father really had done everything he could to try and find him in time should be soothing, but it wasn’t. It just caused a painful stab of guilt and shame to Dean’s heart, and he swallowed drily, pulling in a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, only to see John’s face in his mind, as though the image were branded onto the skin behind his eyelids—that sad, _haunted_ look his father had given him, the pain that had flooded the man’s eyes when Dean had begged him to pull that trigger.

And it hurt. Fuck, it _hurt_.

Castiel’s voice brought him back to the present abruptly, and honestly, Dean was kind of glad for it. The sound of the man talking, the deep rumble that was the guy’s voice was a good distraction from all the ugly, painful thoughts that were currently plaguing Dean’s mind.

“It was thanks to him that I found that house, actually. I followed him there, but I managed to stay out of his sight while… while everything happened. I was outside through a lot of it, waiting for the right moment to go in.”

“And what happened?” Dean asked, voice croaky and pathetically weak, “After I… you know.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud, but he figured he didn’t actually need to.

“Your father left right after shooting you,” Castiel replied. His voice sounded even lower all of a sudden, almost somber. “When Meg took off, I had to choose between trying to follow her and staying behind, but I knew they’d turned you and I wasn’t sure what your father would do, so I chose to stay. However, I thought it better not to interfere when your father shot you, unless he did something to actually kill you. But he didn’t. He just stood there for what must have been a full minute after he pulled the trigger, just… _staring_ at you, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, or what he’d done. And then he just… snapped, I guess. He just turned around and left, drove away in a hurry, so I made sure that Meg was really gone before I went in and finished the job for him, then I took you and left. That was about four hours ago. We’ve been on the road ever since.”

Dean frowned. “Finished the job? What does that mean?”

“I killed Tom,” Castiel explained, “Since apparently your father didn’t know how to do that right.”

Dean paused for a beat, considering the hybrid’s words, feeling a small spark of curiosity coming to life inside his chest. He cleared his throat, shifting a bit in his seat before he asked, “And how do you do that? Kill a hybrid, I mean.” He hoped Castiel wouldn’t notice the slight waver in his voice. Dean knew that he’d need to use that information pretty soon, but this guy really didn’t need to know about that.

“Well, for a human, the only thing they can do is cut off the head, like a normal vampire. But removing the heart also works, which is… what I did.”

Oh. Lovely.

Both options sounded a bit too complicated for Dean to do to himself, though, so he'd need to figure something out. Maybe he could find a hunter who’d do it for him, he reasoned—just cut off his head with a machete. That actually seemed like the best option right now.

Or maybe Castiel could make things a whole lot easier for him and just pull Dean's freaking heart out. That would work, too.

Dean frowned as that thought registered in his mind, because it was in that moment that he realized there was something about Castiel’s story that didn’t quite make sense.

“Why didn’t you kill me, though?” he asked.

Castiel shrugged, and his answer came easily, without a second of hesitation, as if he thought it was pretty obvious and simple, “Because you didn’t deserve it.”

Dean huffed, “Yeah, pal, maybe you weren’t really paying attention back there, but _I_ killed that girl.” He lifted a hand to rub at his face, and he winced when he realized that there was still some dry blood coating the skin around his mouth. “Her blood’s still on my fucking _face.”_

“I know what you did,” Castiel replied calmly, “But that doesn’t mean you deserve you die.”

“I’m a monster. I think that’s reason enough.”

Castiel glanced at Dean for a second, before focusing his eyes back on the road and shaking his head. “That’s not true.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort, to argue, but then he decided there was no point to it. Why the fuck should he even care if this guy agreed with him or not, anyway?

And most importantly, why was he still in this fucking car? He should be out there, looking for a hunter to kill his sorry ass, and not here having a pointless argument with another fucking hybrid.

“Stop the car.”

Castiel turned his head again to frown at the hunter, giving him a confused look. “What?”

“Stop the damn car!” Dean all but growled out, and even if he still seemed unsure, Castiel did as he was told, slowing down the car and steering it onto the side of the road, carefully bringing the vehicle to a full stop.

Dean pushed his door open before the car had even stopped completely, slamming it shut loudly behind himself. A second later he heard the engine shutting off and another door opening and closing with a metallic whine, and then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Castiel was _there_ , standing right in front of him after apparently rounding the car in a freaking blur.

Dean blinked confusedly at him, too startled to have a proper reaction.

Not human. Hybrid. Right.

It was only then that Dean noticed the guy was wearing an actual freaking suit underneath that ugly coat, plus a deep blue tie—which was on _backwards_ , by the way—and the hunter couldn’t help but frown at the man’s whole attire for a second. Seriously, who the hell was this guy? He looked like a freaking tax accountant or a Bible salesman or something. How the hell was he a freaking hybrid?

“Where do you think you’re going?” Castiel asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugged, quickly pushing away all thoughts related to the guy’s rather odd clothing choices. “Apparently, I have to figure out a way to cut off my own head or pull out my own heart, unless you’d be so kind to make it easy for me and do it yourself.” He spread his arms in an invitation as he said that last part, but apparently Blue Eyes wasn’t on board with that plan.

Castiel looked truthfully surprised to hear those words. His eyes widened, eyebrows rising up to his forehead, and he was quick to shake his head, his disbelief clear in both his face and voice as he stated, “I’m not going to kill you.”

Dean shrugged again, letting his arms fall to hang at his sides. “Well, then I guess I’ll just have to figure this out on my own, won’t I? I bet my Dad’s still back in Superior. All I have to do is tell him how to do it right this time, to make sure I _stay_ dead, and that’s it. Problem solved.”

He tried to sidestep Castiel, fully intending to walk all the way back to Superior if he had to—though he was hopeful that he might be able to hitch a ride—but a hand came up to grasp at Dean’s arm, its grip awfully strong, as if the thing were made out of steel or something, and Dean had no other choice but to stop walking.

Dean tried to shake the guy’s hand off of him, but Castiel didn’t even budge. Why the hell was everyone so much stronger than him? For fuck’s sake. This wasn’t fair. “Dude, you mind?”

“I won’t let you kill yourself, either.” Castiel’s eyes were hard, filled with a weird sort of determination, and his voice was surprisingly sharp. The conviction that suddenly coated his tone had Dean frowning in confusion, because he honestly hadn’t expected to hear anything like that from the guy, but soon enough the hunter’s surprise melted away, turning into annoyance instead.

“Why the hell do you care?” he snapped, “I still don’t get why you saved me in the first place. You should have just killed me right then and there when you finished off Tom.”

Castiel shook his head, disbelief flooding his features once more. His eyes were even wider now, but there was a heavy frown in his brows, too, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He was staring at Dean like the hunter had just grown another head or something, like Castiel truly thought he was mad, and he seemed to be struggling to find any more words to say.

So Dean insisted, “Seriously, why did you do it? Why the hell did you save me?”

Castiel’s frown deepened even more, and he still looked just as perplexed as he had a moment prior, but now his eyes were sharper, more focused, as though looking for something on Dean’s face. “What’s the matter?” he asked after a beat, tilting his head to the side a bit, his gaze still unwavering and surprisingly intense. That was, until his features suddenly softened and understanding filled his eyes. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” he concluded.

Dean swallowed drily, feeling incredibly uncomfortable under that sharp gaze. He didn't even bother trying to argue with the guy. There was just no point to it. “So why’d you do it?” he asked instead.

The look in those deep blue eyes seemed to grow even darker then, and Dean wasn’t sure what to make of it. Castiel’s voice sounded lower, almost somber, when he answered, “Because no one was there to save me when I was taken. Because when Meg and Tom took me to some faraway abandoned warehouse and turned me, _I_ had to break free and fight for my own life. I was helpless, desperate that someone, _anyone_ would hear me scream; that someone would come and save me, but that didn’t happen. And I don’t want anyone else to go through what Meg and Tom put me through, so saving the people they turn is the least I can do. I’ve even managed to save a few people from being turned at all.”

Well, that… that wasn’t what Dean had expected to hear. Not at all, really. “So you’ve been following them?” he inquired.

Castiel nodded, “For two years now, actually. They’re pretty hard to track, though, and they normally make a run for it before I can actually get to them, so normally all I can do is free their victims—or the ones that can still be saved, anyway. As you probably know already, most people don't survive the change."

Dean gave a small, slow nod in response.

"Last night was the first real shot I got at killing one of them, thanks to your father," Castiel added, "So now that Tom’s dealt with, I just have to find Meg.”

Dean paused to consider that explanation, because he certainly hadn’t seen that one coming, though he supposed it made sense. Those two had turned Castiel, and now he wanted revenge. Honestly, Dean had to admit that the idea of hunting down that damn bitch and making her pay for what she’d done to him was rather appealing to him as well.

Only Dean couldn’t stay like this. Castiel had been trying to hunt down Meg and Tom for two years, and he’d only now managed to kill one of them, so there was no way to know how long it would take for him to have a real shot at killing Meg again.

And Dean didn’t have that kind of time. He had to die, and soon. Now, actually, if he had his way.

“Well, good luck with that, then,” Dean said, once again trying to sidestep Castiel, but the guy still had an iron grip around the hunter’s arm, and he held Dean back easily once again. This time, the hunter actually glared at him for it.

“Dean, please,” Castiel tried, voice considerably softer, almost pleading, “You’re _not_ a monster. You killed that girl, yes, but those instincts you felt back there, that _urge_ you must have felt to feed on her—all of that goes away with time. Trust me—I’ve been like this for over two years now, so I know what I’m talking about. You just have to learn how to control it. It’s not always like that.”

Dean was already shaking his head even before Castiel was done talking. “I _can’t_ live like this. I’m a hunter. _This,_ ” He gestured at himself with his free hand, “Is what I’ve been taught to hate, to _kill,_ my entire life. I just _can’t,_ Castiel.”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe hunters could be wrong?” Castiel inquired, his voice considerably louder and sharper than it had been only a few seconds prior. He suddenly sounded annoyed. “Yes, it is true that _some_ monsters deserve to die, because they prey on humans, because they kill without mercy, like Tom and Meg. But over _half_  the creatures you so certainly deem as killers actually live peacefully amongst humans, and you don’t even _know_. Hunters only find the monsters that _let_ themselves be found, the ones that practically _ask_ to be hunted, really. Most of us live in secret, without calling attention to ourselves, because we just want to live like any other normal person. Not all of us are _monsters._ ”

Dean had to be honest—he had never thought about it like that before. The realization that there might be a lot more monsters out there than he’d previously thought, that sometimes those creatures might go completely unnoticed because they just didn’t kill anyone, seemed both shocking and a bit absurd to him, so much that he was rendered completely quiet by it, unsure of what to say in response.

So Castiel continued, “I haven’t fed on an actual person in almost two years. I drink exclusively from blood bags now. Sure, I gotta take them from a hospital, but I don’t actually hurt anyone. I have a _job._ Does that sound _anything_ like the monsters you normally hunt?”

No, it didn’t, and Dean wasn’t really sure how to process that, or even how to react to it, really.

So he simply lifted a hand to rub over his growing beard—a nervous gesture he’d picked up from his father over the years—while he struggled to wrap his head around what he’d just heard.

“You don’t have to make a decision right now, Dean,” Castiel added, voice gentle and careful, like he was dealing with a spooked wild animal, which was a pretty accurate analogy, really. “I’m just asking you to give me a chance to change your mind.”

Dean scoffed, finally finding his voice to speak again. He shook his head, his disbelief clear in his voice when he asked, “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“By showing you that you’re not a monster,” Castiel replied simply, “That you can live with this, and that being something other than human doesn’t automatically make you a killer.”

“And what about you, huh?” Dean asked, voice a little sharper than before, “How many people have _you_ killed?”

Castiel paused. His eyes hardened visibly, and he pressed his lips together tightly for a moment before he finally looked away. Dean had really hit a nerve, it seemed, because Castiel was silent for a long moment, until he finally pulled in a breath, which he let out in a big, heavy sigh. He shook his head, as though attempting to clear it, before he finally answered, “There’s a lot more blood on my hands than there is on yours; I’ll tell you that.” He turned his head back around to fix Dean with yet another intense, unwavering stare. “Perhaps that’s why I’m here. Maybe this is all just an attempt to… redeem myself, in a way. But what truly matters here is that I’m trying. I could have just given up like you have. I could have found a hunter to kill me and take the easy way out, but I didn’t do that. I'm trying to... do something with my life, even after losing everything I had and everyone I cared about. I'm trying to _save_ people. And of course, I know that doesn't erase everything that I've done, but I like to think it's a start.”

It was Dean’s turn to look away then, and he, too, pulled in a big breath of air, only to let it out slowly, though unlike Castiel, he didn't speak right after. He just couldn’t get his lips to shape themselves around any more words, it seemed, and so he remained silent, rubbing a hand over his beard just like he’d done before.

And then he winced when the skin of his palm brushed against some dry blood again. Fuck, he really needed to wash his face.

“Give me one month,” Castiel insisted—practically _begged_ , really, “One month to change your mind, to teach you how to control your instincts and have a normal life. And if by then you still want to die, if you still think you can’t live like this, then I’ll… I’ll give you what you want.”

“You’ll let me kill myself?” Dean asked, finally turning his head back around to look at Castiel again, and he found nothing but sincerity in those deep blue eyes. There was a weird look in them, though—the man’s gaze was heavy, filled with something Dean couldn’t quite identify.

“No,” Castiel replied simply, shaking his head weakly, though his voice was unwavering, filled with confidence. He sounded honest, as far as Dean could tell. “I’ll do it myself.”

It was a tempting offer, Dean realized. If he took it, then he’d get one month to try and find the bitch that had turned him and kill her, and then Castiel would just end him—easy like that; no need to go after his old man or another hunter. He still paused to think about it for a moment, but in the end, Dean came to the conclusion that, unlike what he’d previously thought, _this_  really seemed to be the best option right now.

At that thought, Dean sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Fine,” he breathed out, and then watched as Castiel’s shoulders relaxed in what the hunter guessed was relief. “You have one month.”

Castiel nodded, letting out a breath, “Good.” He finally released Dean’s arm, and when he seemed to realize that the hunter wouldn’t try to take off running or something now that he was finally free from that iron grip, he gestured at the car with a nod of his head and stepped away from Dean, clearly intending to round the car again so that he could reclaim the driver's seat. “We should get going. We're already in Kansas, so we should arrive at our destination soon.”

“Wait, hold on,” Dean asked, a little alarmed, eyebrows rising in surprise.

Castiel paused, turning back around to frown at him, clearly confused.

Dean swallowed drily, and his voice sounded a little too high and squeaky when he asked, “You live in Kansas?”

“Yes. Lebanon, actually,” Castiel replied, still frowning at him, and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief at learning that the guy didn’t live in freaking Lawrence, of all places, because he definitely couldn’t go back _there._ Castiel seemed to find that reaction rather odd, however, because his frown deepened even more. “Why?”

“No reason,” Dean replied quickly, shaking of his head a bit too vehemently, but fortunately Castiel didn’t insist on the subject, even if he did seem intrigued.

They entered the car after that—an ugly fucking Lincoln Continental, Dean noticed with a small incredulous huff—but when Castiel finally started up the engine again, a thought suddenly occurred to Dean, and his eyes widened, body tensing up in his seat.

“I have another condition,” Dean blurted out quickly, before the car could start moving again, and Castiel raised a curious eyebrow at him, wordlessly asking the hunter to elaborate. So he did, “We have to go back to Superior first.”

Castiel frowned again, clearly confused by the request. “Why?” he asked.

“We’re going back for my car.”

***~*~*~*~***

“What the hell is this place?” Dean asked as he eyed the vast room around him. What Castiel apparently called his home was a weird place, hidden under what the blue-eyed hybrid had explained was a deactivated factory, buried under a small hill. The entrance to this supposed ‘Bunker’, as Castiel called it, was pretty hard to find, both the normal front door and the garage gate, and if he hadn’t been following the Lincoln with the Impala, Dean would have never found it by himself.

“Have you ever heard of the Men of Letters?” Castiel asked as he started to slowly make his way down the metal staircase by the front door, earning a shake of head in response from Dean, who chose to pause at the top of the stairs to get a better view of the room. “Well, they were an organization of sorts—secret, of course—that used to research and study the supernatural. They were all brutally murdered a few decades ago by a very powerful coven of witches, and they had a lot of these places scattered all around the country, so now they’re all abandoned and forgotten—or at least most of them are, anyway.” He lifted a hand once he reached the bottom of the stairs, gesturing vaguely at the room around him, “These walls are powerfully warded against, well, anything, really. No one can come inside unless we allow it."

Dean couldn’t help but frown at that explanation, still standing frozen at the top of the stairs. “And you just happened to… find this place?” That seemed a little suspicious, honestly, since it basically went against everything the guy had just said.

Castiel shook his head slowly. “No, someone I know had the key to it, or else I would have never been able to get in. You’ll meet her in a bit, actually, along with the others.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose a little in surprise. He finally started to make his way down the stairs as he asked, “Wait, there are others?” He certainly hadn’t been aware of _that._

“Not many,” Castiel assured him. “It’s just me, three more hybrids and a witch.”

“Three more hybrids you rescued?”

“Two of them, yes. The other one and the witch I met through other means.” Castiel didn’t elaborate, and Dean had a feeling the guy didn’t really want to get into that story right now, so the hunter decided to just drop it.

For now.

Dean only had a handful of seconds to take in the weird—bizarre, actually—decor of the room around him—namely, the big table right at the center of the room with a colorful, lit up world map covering its entire glass surface—as well as notice what appeared to be a library in an adjacent room, before he found himself following Castiel as the blue-eyed hybrid walked toward the door by the bottom of the stairs. He chose not to comment on anything he was seeing, and instead simply left the room without another word, falling in step right behind Castiel and walking through that door, then crossing a hallway and entering another room—a kitchen, by the looks of it, though a pretty odd one at that. Everything in it looked pretty weird as well—or rather, very, _very_ old.

But then again, the people who were actually supposed to be living here _had_ died decades ago, so maybe that shouldn’t be too surprising.

Castiel could have renovated the place a bit, though, or at least bought some new furniture. It definitely couldn’t hurt.

There were four people inside the kitchen—three men and a woman, all sitting at the table and chatting, though they fell quiet as soon as Dean and Castiel entered the room. The woman—a redhead with dark blue eyeshadow coloring her eyelids—and the man sitting right across from her—a big, burly guy with a rather carelessly kept beard and clear blue eyes—were both holding a bottle of beer each. The man sitting beside the burly one—a smaller guy with a much more carefully kept beard and the four buttons at the top of his shirt undone, which allowed Dean to see _way too much_ of the guy’s chest—wasn’t drinking anything, but the man sitting beside the redhead—a dark-haired guy with a meticulously trimmed beard, who was wearing a suit that looked awfully expensive for… well, whatever it was that those four were doing in here—was actually holding a damn blood bag, calmly drinking from it as though that was absolutely normal and there was nothing wrong in the freaking world.

Dean held himself back from pursing his lips in disgust at the sight, but then the sweet smell of blood reached his nose, and he cursed himself inside his head when he felt his nostrils flaring and his mouth watering at that alluring scent.

Fuck, this felt so fucking wrong, and he hated every single second of it.

“Well, well,” the woman smiled at the pair, a thick accent that Dean couldn’t quite identify easily rolling off her tongue as she spoke. An almost predatory look took over her eyes as she examined the hunter, openly eyeing him up and down with obvious, unabashed interest. Dean suddenly felt very uncomfortable, but he did his best to fight the urge to shift his weight on his feet, fearing that would only give him away. “Castiel, dear, what have you brought home? And where can I find one for myself?”

Maybe she was Irish? No, her accent didn't sound Irish. Scottish? Yeah, that seemed right. Dean was pretty sure that was Scottish.

The man sitting beside the woman huffed, clearly annoyed by her words, before rolling his eyes and taking another sip from his blood bag.

“This is Dean,” Castiel announced, clearly addressing the entire room and ignoring the redhead’s comment, apparently completely unfazed by it. “Dean, this is Balthazar,” He pointed at the man with the partially unbuttoned shirt, who smirked at Dean, and then at the burly dude sitting right beside him, “And that’s Benjamin.”

“But you can call me Benny,” Benjamin was quick to correct. “Cassie over there ain’t too big on nicknames.” He had an accent too—Louisiana, Dean was pretty sure.

All Dean could do was nod numbly in response.

“That’s Rowena,” Castiel continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted, pointing at the redhead, who winked at Dean and gave him a small wave, wiggling her fingers at him, which the hunter was way too uncomfortable to respond to. Completely ignoring everything that was happening around him once again, Castiel pointed at the guy with the blood bag and the expensive suit, “And that’s her son Crowley.”

Okay, hold on. That didn’t seem right.

Dean frowned. “You’re his _mother_?” he asked the redhead, who looked at least ten years _younger_ than the guy who was supposedly her son.

Rowena smiled at him, chuckling, “Oh, aren’t you sweet. But it is true, unfortunately. I’m afraid I’m a few centuries older than I look.”

“And she’s a witch, too,” Crowley piped up from beside her, a heavy British accent coating his words, which was weird because his accent was very clearly different from his mother’s, “So don’t let that teeth-rotting, overly sweet smile fool you.”

Okay, so Rowena was the witch, then, which meant that Balthazar, Benny and Crowley were all hybrids, along with Castiel.

Dean filed that information away in his mind, like an automatic reaction. He couldn’t exactly turn off ‘hunter mode’, it seemed.

“Well, don’t just stand there like two overdressed trees,” Balthazar commented, and Dean realized that he, too, had a pretty distinct accent. British, maybe. European for sure. He waved Dean and Castiel over, standing up from his chair. “What can I get you, Dean-o? Water, blood, beer, whiskey, wine—we have it all.”

Dean’s eyes flitted over to the blood bag in Crowley’s hand, that same hunger from before quickly making itself known inside of him once again, practically screaming at him, begging him to give the monster that now resided within him what it wanted. He swallowed drily, shaking his head and doing his best to push that unwanted urge away, to ignore it, as difficult as that was to accomplish in that moment, with the sweet, mouthwatering smell of blood lingering so strongly in the air.

“Just beer’s fine,” Dean forced the words out of his mouth, and they came out a lot weaker than he’d intended, but Balthazar didn’t even bat an eye. He gave Dean this weird smile that looked way too much like a smirk, winked at him, and then patted the hunter’s shoulder as he walked past him, heading for the fridge—or, well, what Dean assumed was the fridge, anyway.

“Well, go on, take a seat, darlin’,” Rowena said a little too sweetly, her smile becoming even more unnerving all of a sudden, something Dean hadn’t even thought to be possible. “We don’t bite.”

Crowley snorted beside her. “That’s a lie, Mother.”

Rowena rolled her eyes, glaring at her son for a second before she corrected herself, “Okay, _I_ don’t bite, then.”

“That’s _another_ lie!” Balthazar piped up from where he was still rummaging through the contents of the fridge.

Rowena looked annoyed, briefly glaring in Balthazar’s direction as well, but she simply shrugged only a second later, throwing yet another wink Dean’s way as her lips curled into another suggestive smile.

Seriously, what the _hell_ had Dean gotten himself into here? He couldn’t live with these people for a whole freaking month. He might actually go insane.

Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about only killing himself, he realized. Maybe he should kill all these people too, and _then_ find a way to kill himself. None of them were human, anyway, so maybe Dean could make himself useful one last time and rid this world of five more monsters instead of just himself.

Dean filed those thoughts away for later.

“What, you waiting for an official invitation letter or somethin’, brother?” Benny asked, gesturing at the empty chair beside him, one of the four currently available at the table, “Come on over, have a seat.”

Dean bit his tongue, holding back the urge to tell that guy that he wasn’t his freaking _‘brother’_.

Castiel moved then, claiming the seat at the head of the table, beside Rowena and Balthazar, which left Dean with three options—the chair at the other end of the table, which had two empty chairs on either side of it and would make him look utterly antisocial (and maybe a little rude, too), the seat beside Benny and the one beside Crowley.

And far-too-friendly nicknames aside, Benny did seem like the least… well, annoying of the bunch right after Castiel, not to mention that sitting next to him sure as hell seemed a lot better than sitting right beside Crowley and his damn blood bag, so Dean decided his best option right now really was to take the seat beside Benny.

So that’s what he did. He placed his bag on the floor beside the door—out of the way, so that no one would trip over it if they wanted to leave the room—and walked over to the table, lowering himself onto the empty chair right next to Benny.

Balthazar returned to the table then, carrying five beer bottles and placing them on the table, right at the center, probably so that anyone who wanted one could just reach out and take it. He picked one up and handed it to Dean, a smirk playing on his lips as he said, “There you go, Freckles.”

Okay, Dean kind of wanted to punch that dude.

But he didn’t, and instead, he calmly took the offered beer with a sharp nod of his head. He opened it quickly with an expert twist of his wrist, before lifting the amber-colored bottle up to his lips as soon as the thing was uncapped and taking several big gulps from it, barely even pausing to breathe between them.

“Whoa, slow down, tiger,” Benny laughed, “The bottle ain’t gonna run from ya.”

Dean ignored him, taking four more big gulps from his drink and closing his eyes after he’d swallowed it all. He’d half-expected the beer to taste weird or different, maybe even unpleasant, considering that technically he shouldn’t even be drinking it in the first place—his body was probably always expecting blood now, and not human food or beverages—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. The beer actually tasted the exact same as it had when he’d been human, which Dean was very much glad for. Small miracles and all.

Honestly, though, he kinda wished he’d thought to ask for something stronger—Balthazar _had_ offered him whiskey, after all. Dean wasn’t sure just how much alcohol it took to get a hybrid drunk, but he had to admit that he was curious, not to mention very much willing to find out at this point.

Maybe later, he decided.

“So,” Rowena started, eyeing Dean with obvious curiosity as she played with the label of her own half-drunk beer, “You’re another newly-turned, I gather? Meg and Tom still getting pretty busy, I see.”

Dean felt his jaw clenching at that question, muscles tensing up slightly, but somehow he managed to make himself nod in response—albeit very slowly, and he took another big swig of his beer right after.

“Tom won’t do anything anymore,” Castiel piped up from his seat, reaching for a beer himself, “Now’s just Meg.”

That earned him several raised eyebrows around the table, and a clearly startled silence took over the room for a few seconds as everyone seemed to take a moment to process what they’d just heard.

“So you actually ended the bastard?” Crowley was the one to ask, voicing the question that was surely echoing in everyone else’s mind, his eyes filled with something very close to awe as he stared at Castiel.

“Ripped out his heart,” Castiel replied with a sharp nod, before taking a swig of his own beer.

A thundering laugh filled the room, and Balthazar stood up again, a wide smile playing on his lips. “Oh, what a lovely evening!” he exclaimed—way too loudly, Dean might add. The hunter couldn’t help but flinch because of it, still not used to his far-too-sensitive hearing. “I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you all agree?”

“No, it doesn’t, Balthazar,” Castiel was quick to say, his tone suddenly curt and dry, causing the cheerful hybrid to freeze on his spot. Balthazar’s smile fell, and his features earned a clear hint of confusion as he furrowed his brows, giving the other hybrid a perplexed look, which Castiel completely ignored. “We all know Tom wasn’t the brains of that pair, and Meg is still out there. This might slow her down a bit, but it doesn’t solve anything.”

“Well, aren’t you the biggest buzz kill of the century, Cassie,” Balthazar retorted, rolling his eyes, though he didn’t sound entirely annoyed. There was a clear hint of mockery to his tone, and it didn’t take long for his lips to shape themselves around yet another smile—this one more teasing than the previous. “If you don’t want to cherish this moment with me, then fine, you grumpy wolf, but I intend to give this particularly satisfying news the celebration it deserves.”

Crowley snorted, dropping his by then empty blood bag onto the table, before leaning back in his chair. “And by that you mean: take this as an excuse to go out, get hammered and hook up with more people than you can actually remember, preferably at the same time.”

Balthazar didn’t even have the decency to look offended, or even to deny Crowley’s comment, for that matter. The bastard actually looked pretty smug about it, even winking at Dean when the hunter raised his eyebrows at him. “Yeah, well, what can you do," he replied with a halfhearted shrug, focusing his gaze back on Crowley, “Oh, wait, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you remove that stick you’ve personally shoved _impressively_ far up your own ass for just a few hours and come along? Might do you some good, you know, having a little fun once in a while. Maybe you wouldn’t constantly look like someone peed on your Lucky Charms if you did it more often—or, well, _at all_.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Balthazar for just a second before his annoyance seemed to fade. He actually looked like he was considering the offer for a moment, before he finally shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

Rowena huffed out a small laugh beside him, rolling her eyes, but said nothing.

Without another word, Crowley stood up and rounded the table, falling in step right beside Balthazar as the pair made their way over to the door of the kitchen. When they actually got there, though, Crowley paused, turning back around and fixating his gaze on Dean.

He winked at the hunter, smirking. “Oh, pleasure to meet you, Dan.”

For fuck’s sake.

Crowley didn’t wait for a response, not even lingering around for long enough to see Dean’s answering eye-roll. Instead, he turned back around quickly, vanishing through the doorway that led back to that weird room with the world map table just a second later.

Balthazar, too, winked at Dean, throwing a, “Don’t wait up!” over his shoulder as he vanished from sight as well.

Seriously. For _fuck’s_ _sake_.

Yep, there was no freaking way that Dean was going to last a whole month living with these people.

But, well, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. If he actually lost his patience and just snapped before his month was up, he would most likely end up killing one of them—probably Balthazar first—and what was so bad about that, really? Honestly, Dean should be glad that these people were so freaking annoying. If he really did end up killing them all, this would only make it easier for him in the end.

Briefly, he wondered if Castiel even realized how big of a mistake he'd made by bringing Dean—a _hunter_ , of all things—here. He guessed not.

Dean was actually startled to realize that he could hear Balthazar and Crowley moving around in the other room, slowly climbing up the metal staircase that Dean himself had walked down only a few minutes prior. The sound of the heavy metal front door at the top of the stairs opening and closing was weirdly loud, even from all the way in the kitchen, and Dean couldn’t help but wince because of it.

Damn heightened senses.

It was only when silence had completely taken over the room with the weird table, which meant that those two were finally gone, that Benny spoke up, turning a bit in his seat so that he could give Dean a shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “Don’t let them get to ya, chief. They’re perfectly harmless, those two. They might seem like a bit too much at first, but you’ll get used to them eventually.”

Dean huffed, shaking his head as he lifted his beer up to his lips again, swallowing yet another mouthful of his drink. “Yeah, they’re _something,_ alright,” he grumbled, earning a chuckle from Benny.

By that point, Dean’s beer was mostly gone, so he just downed the rest of it in one go, although he was a little annoyed that he still couldn’t feel even a slight buzz. He knew that both vampires and werewolves had a much higher tolerance for alcohol than humans, and he had a feeling that hybrids might have an even higher tolerance, which was just all kinds of inconvenient, because it meant that he couldn’t even get drunk without drinking an entire liquor store.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Dean was considering grabbing himself another beer from the center of the table when a big yawn suddenly found its way out of his mouth, rocking his entire body, and when it was finally over, the hunter lifted a hand so that he could rub at his eyes, trying to send the sleepiness away. Fuck, he was tired. Why was he so tired?

He didn’t even think that hybrids _could_ get tired, but apparently they could.

“Perhaps I should get a room ready for you, Dean,” Castiel commented, since apparently he’d been watching Dean closely enough to notice the hunter’s yawning. “You look exhausted. You’ve been through a lot, and your body is still adjusting to the change. You’ll need a lot of rest throughout the next few days.”

Dean couldn’t exactly find it in himself to argue against that, not when he really did feel like he could just pass out right then and there, like he could just collapse onto that table and sleep for a whole freaking week, so in the end, he just nodded in agreement.

But then Castiel stood up from his chair and Dean realized that if the guy left the room now, he’d be left here in this kitchen, alone with The Flirty Witch of the West and way-too-friendly, definitely-not-his-brother Benny, and he really didn’t want that.

“Actually, I—” The hunter stood up a little too abruptly, pushing his chair backwards a bit as he did it, which caused it to drag loudly against the floor. That earned him a few confused looks from everyone else in the room, but Dean ignored them, keeping his eyes focused solely on Castiel. “I, uh… I could just go with you. You know, to… help with that.”

Castiel frowned, and he looked like he wanted argue, or maybe just politely point out that there was no need for that—Dean really wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, honestly—but something must have shown on Dean’s face, because the blue-eyed hybrid nodded just a moment later, even if a small hint of a confused frown still lingered in his brows. “Very well,” he agreed with a tiny, careful nod.

Dean glanced down at the empty beer bottle he was still grasping in his hand. “Where do I…?” he asked, lifting the bottle to make the meaning behind his question clearer.

“Just leave it there,” Castiel simply waved a hand through the air, gesturing vaguely at the table. “I’ll take care of it later.”

Dean wasn’t really happy about that, but he did as he was told, leaving the empty bottle on the table before following Castiel out of the kitchen and into the hallway without so much as a glance at the two other occupants of the room, picking up his bag from the floor as he walked past it.

“Bye, Dean!” Rowena’s voice followed them, the words practically sung, an obvious smile playing on her lips—Dean could actually _hear_ it, for fuck’s sake—but the hunter thought it better to just ignore her, choosing not to glance back at the witch as he left the kitchen.

Dean walked about two steps behind Castiel, following the blue-eyed hybrid as he made his way down a hallway with seemingly endless doors on either side of it, golden metal numbers pinned to every single one, plus a weird-looking symbol formed by a bunch of triangles inside a circle. Dean wondered if the numbers actually meant anything. He was certain that the symbol did, but he chose not to ask about it.

“How many rooms do you have in this place?” the hunter asked instead when they turned right at the end of that hallway, only to find themselves walking down _another_ corridor, identical to the last one.

“Thirty bedrooms,” Castiel replied, “Plus four bathrooms, and a few other rooms—kitchen, library, storage, laundry room. This place was designed to house a lot of members for long periods of time.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean muttered.

“This room is empty.” Castiel paused in front of the door with the number 28 on it, resting a hand on the doorknob. “And it's far enough from everyone else’s that you should have some space and privacy.”

Dean nodded, feeling a spark of gratitude blooming inside his chest at those words, which he hurried to stomp out. He chose not to say anything in response, and instead simply watched as Castiel pushed the door open slowly, before following the blue-eyed hybrid inside the room.

The bedroom was small and bare, the walls in desperate need of a new coat of paint. The bed was also small, clearly meant for just one person, and there was also a nightstand, a sink, a mirror, a few empty wooden shelves on the walls and a closet, but that was it. The room was very clearly uninhabited, with a thick layer of dust covering everything in sight.

Castiel walked over to the bed without a word, grabbing the pillow currently resting on top of it and tucking it under his arm, before he started to remove the sheet from the bed, pulling the fabric from where it'd been carefully tucked underneath the mattress.

“What’re you doing?” Dean asked, frowning confusedly at the scene.

“This bedding has been here for decades,” Castiel explained, not pausing what he was doing for even a single second. “I’m pretty sure it’s best to change it. I’ve got a few clean ones you can borrow.”

Well, that did make sense—the truly ridiculous amount of dust currently covering that bedding was definitely not healthy or hygienic, Dean thought with a slight purse of his lips.

“ _Unless_ you’d prefer to sleep on top of several layers of dust from another century, that is,” Castiel added. His voice was serious, that same dry tone he seemed to use most of the time still very much present in those words, but the small tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed the tiniest hint of a smile.

So the dude was making jokes now, huh?

Dean huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head lightly. “Yeah, thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” he replied, before stepping forward when Castiel continued to take apart the bedding. “Here, let me help you with that.” The hunter set his bag down on the floor right beside the bed so that he could help, and once the mattress was left completely bare, he followed Castiel out of the room and a few doors down the hallway, only to find himself stepping into what appeared to be the laundry room. His eyebrows rose at the sight of the big, old-looking industrial washing machines that took up pretty much an entire wall.

Yeah, this place had definitely been designed to house a bunch of people from another century, Dean mused.

There was a modern washing machine placed by the wall, though, which Dean could only guess was an addition made by the current occupants of this place. Probably for more delicate clothing, he thought, because those industrial things certainly didn’t look like the most gentle of machines.

Castiel gestured at the hamper in the corner, shoving everything he was carrying into it and telling Dean to do the same, and the hunter hurried to comply.

“The linen closet is over here,” Castiel said as they stepped out of the laundry room, opening a door right across the hallway. He pulled some clean sheets, a brand new pillow, a comforter and a pillowcase from it, handing them to Dean one by one, creating a small pile in the hunter’s arms. “There are clean towels in here too, in case you want to take a shower. That’s a bathroom right there.” He pointed at one of the doors to his right, and Dean made a mental note of which one.

Second one before the closet, left side. Okay.

“There are three others, though.” Castiel started walking again, heading in the direction they’d come from earlier, and the hunter hurried to follow him, still carrying the small pile of bedding items in his arms. “I can show you to them later, if you want. One of them is close to the kitchen, fourth door to your left when you leave the war room.”

“War room?” Dean asked.

“The room with the table right at the center, with the big world map.”

Ah. That one.

“Fitting name, I guess,” Dean commented.

Castiel shrugged, “That’s what the Men of Letters used to call it.”

Dean didn’t have a response for that.

They reached the bedroom Castiel had chosen for Dean quickly enough, and the hunter insisted on making his own bed, setting everything he was carrying down onto the bare mattress before turning back around to face the blue-eyed hybrid, shoving his now empty hands into his jeans pockets awkwardly, unsure of what the hell he was supposed to say to the guy now.

Castiel saved him from having to figure that one out by himself, though. “You need anything else?” he asked.

Dean shook his head. “No, I’m… I’m good, I guess.” Or at least as good as he could be in his current situation, anyway.

Castiel frowned slightly, apparently confused by that answer. “Aren’t you hungry?” he questioned. “It’s been quite some time since you last fed, and being newly turned means that you’ll feel hungry a lot faster. Your body’s still adapting, so it’ll burn through any blood you drink a lot quicker than normal.”

Dean winced at those words, hating that he could still feel that weird emptiness inside of him, which really seemed to be getting worse now. He’d had this annoying, burning feeling in his stomach since they’d left Nebraska after fetching the Impala, and it had only been getting stronger since then, but it was almost painful now.

But Dean was still very much determined to ignore it.

So he shook his head, voice dry, almost sharp as he replied, “No.”

The frown in Castiel’s brows deepened, his head tilting slightly to the side as he seemed to consider Dean for a moment, apparently mulling the hunter’s answer over, weighing it in his mind. “You don’t want to feed,” he finally concluded, a clear hint of surprise audible in his voice.

Dean figured there was no point in lying to the guy, so he nodded. “I told you I’d give you a month, but I won’t drink a single drop of blood. I’m not doing that. I _refuse_ to do that.” Maybe he might even die before his month was up if he starved himself, Dean realized. That would make his life a whole lot easier, actually.

“You won’t starve to death, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Castiel was quick to point out, as though he’d just read Dean’s mind, which the hunter really hoped wasn’t the case here. Neither vampires nor werewolves could do that, so Dean really hoped the same applied to hybrids. “It’ll just hurt a lot, and at some point you _will_ go rabid, without even the smallest shred of self-control. And if even then you don’t feed, if starvation goes on for too long, your body will just shut down, but you won’t die.”

Well, wasn’t that just fucking awesome.

When Dean didn't immediately respond, Castiel continued, his voice much more gentle than it had been only a moment prior, “If you don’t want to hurt anyone, Dean, then you’d better feed. That’s the only way to keep yourself under control.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face at those words—which was blessedly clean now, thanks to some freaking baby wipes that Castiel had picked up for him at a Gas-N-Sip on the way here (Dean really didn’t want to talk about it). The mere thought of drinking human blood made the beast within him howl in a loud, desperate plea that seemed to echo through his entire body, and Dean actually hated himself for it, hated that he had no control over all these goddamn urges. He refused to give in to them again, to lose himself like he had back in Nebraska, but the single thought of hurting someone because he’d let himself starve to the point where he could no longer control himself was already enough to have his stomach churning unpleasantly. He refused to let that happen, too.

But, well, maybe there was a way for him to feed without drinking human blood.

“Does animal blood work?”

He’d heard about it once, from another hunter. Apparently, animal blood—cow blood was what he’d heard about—should be enough to keep a vampire alive, though Dean imagined that what animal the blood actually came from probably didn’t make much of a difference. Admittedly, Dean had never really believed that story—and neither had the hunter he’d talked to about it, Gordon Walker—but, well, Dean was very much willing to test that theory now.

Castiel’s eyebrows rose at that question, his surprise becoming even more evident in his features. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a very effective solution. Honestly, it’s… rather unpleasant, and I’m speaking from experience here.”

“I don’t care if it’s pleasant or if it tastes like battery acid,” Dean snapped. “Does it keep me under control?”

Castiel sighed, “It depends.”

“On?” Dean pressed.

“On whether you can keep it down.”

Well, at least that wasn’t a no. “But it does work, then?”

“Well, it _is_ blood, so it should satiate you to an extent,” Castiel conceded. “But it’s not—”

“I don’t care,” Dean cut him off quickly. “All I care about is if it’ll keep me from going psycho, that’s all. I don’t care how bad it is.”

“But it truly is the _farthest_ thing from ideal, Dean,” Castiel continued, voice growing louder, stronger as he stepped forward and closer to Dean, a clear urgency now coating his words. “I’m not just telling you that it’s disgusting and it tastes bad. That is true, of course, but it’s not all, either. Our bodies  _reject_ it. Trust me, I tried it. I convinced myself that I could stomach it, that it was better than feeding on people, but I didn’t last longer than a week. I could barely keep it down, threw up most of it every time. I know it works for normal vampires, but it doesn’t work for us. We’re not _designed_ to feed solely on animals, or on anything else other than human blood for that matter, and our body _knows_ that, so it doesn’t accept anything different when we’re hungry. If we drink human blood consistently, our bodies work normally with whatever we eat or drink, no matter what that may be. But if we don’t, we can’t even keep down normal human food, let alone animal blood.”

Dean shrugged, keeping his voice as calm and controlled as he possibly could as he pointed out, “I’ve been hungry for a few hours now, but I kept that beer down just fine.”

“That’s different,” Castiel argued without a beat. “You can’t be _too_ hungry right now, and regardless, it’s like… your body still expects you to feed soon, not to mention that you drank a lot of blood last night." Dean couldn't help but flinch at those words, but Castiel simply ignored the reaction. "But I can assure you that if you don’t feed now, you _will_ start feeling nauseous because of that beer in about an hour.”

Dean shook his head again. He understood why the guy was being so insistent about this—he really did, as weird as that may sound—but Dean just _couldn’t do it._ He _refused_ to feed on humans, even if whatever blood he might drink in this place would be coming strictly from blood bags and not the actual donors. He just wouldn’t do it—simple as that.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to deal with it,” Dean replied with another shrug, “Only got one month left, anyway.”

Castiel’s face fell a little at those words, but he was quick to cover up his reaction. “Dean, we only drink from blood bags,” he tried again, because apparently the guy just wouldn’t give up. He was actually _begging_ now, blue eyes wide and pleading. “We don’t actually hurt anyone. Drinking blood from a _bag_ wouldn’t make you a killer or a monster. You don’t have to—”

“I said I won’t, Castiel!”

Castiel seemed truly startled by the hunter’s outburst, instantly growing silent, and his face fell again, even before the echo of Dean’s shout had faded completely.

The hunter sighed at the sight, running his fingers through his hair. He pulled at the short, light-brown strands that covered his head, letting the pain he felt from it ground him, making his head just a tiny bit clearer. Fuck, he really felt like he could just bite someone’s head off right now, and that realization truly terrified him, because he knew that he actually meant that thought literally.

And that was exactly why he had to do this.

“You asked me for a month,” Dean finally broke the tense silence that had taken over the air inside that room, “And I agreed to that, but I’m gonna do this on my terms, or the deal is off. And I promise you that if I walk out that door, I won’t come back.”

Castiel’s face fell even more, shoulders slumping at his sides, and this time, he actually lowered his eyes, focusing them the floor for a moment. Several seconds went by, during which the blue-eyed hybrid seemed to be thinking the matter over, probably considering Dean’s words, until he finally sighed. He lifted his head again, nodding tensely, jaw clenching a few times, which made it pretty obvious how unhappy he was about this. There was an odd, heavy look in his eyes now, and his voice sounded even lower than normal when he agreed, “Fine, if that’s what you truly want. I’ll… I’ll get you some animal blood tonight, then.”

Dean simply nodded, then turned around to start making his bed. He began by shoving the brand new pillow into the pillowcase, and then worked on stretching the clean white sheet over the mattress, making sure that the thing was tucked in properly underneath it so that it wouldn’t be pulled loose in the middle of the night if he moved too much. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him as he worked, but he chose to just ignore the weird, prickling feeling that knowledge caused in his spine, focusing a little too hard on making his bed as neatly as he possibly could.

“Well, if you… if you need anything else, my room is the one with the number fifteen on the door,” Castiel finally said, just as Dean finished fixing the sheet.

“’kay,” Dean said simply, placing the pillow on its spot at the head of the bed and moving to stretch the comforter over the mattress. The hunter chanced a glance over his shoulder just in time to watch as Castiel turned around without another word, silently walking over to the door, shoulders still hanging lower than normal at his sides.

Dean almost felt bad.

Before he actually stepped out of the room, though, Castiel paused, hand rising in the air to grip the wooden doorframe right beside him, as though feeling the need to steady himself for some reason. “Goodnight, Dean,” he whispered, voice sounding oddly resigned, head bowed slightly.

Dean nodded, even though Castiel wasn’t actually looking at him. “Night,” he replied, letting his voice lose some of the sharpness from earlier, though the word didn’t come out exactly soft, either.

Castiel nodded as well, still not looking at Dean, and then he was gone, vanishing from sight behind the wall as he stepped out of the room and into the hallway.

Dean felt his shoulders sag in relief at finally, _finally_ being alone, letting a heavy, tired sigh escape his mouth. He could already feel the thoughts he’d been trying very hard to ignore since Superior trying to make themselves known in his mind, trying to worm their way into his head, to break down the feeble, fragile wall Dean had built around it to try to keep them out until now.

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, feeling his hands shaking around the fabric of the comforter he was still holding a bit too tightly in his hands. He pushed all those thoughts away, trying to concentrate on what he was doing, trying to clear his mind and fighting to maintain control over his own thoughts for just a little longer. Just a little more.

And in a way, it worked. He finished tidying up his bed, then kneeled beside it, unzipping his bag and looking through it, grabbing a clean change of clothes and, after a brief moment of consideration, his toothbrush from inside of it.

He was extremely relieved that he didn’t run into anyone as he made his way back down the hallway and toward the bathroom, because he definitely didn’t feel like he could deal with any of those guys right now. Balthazar and Crowley were out, and the rest of the bunch were all probably over in the kitchen, he thought, so he went in the opposite direction, heading to the bathroom near the laundry room instead. Dean felt a pang of thankfulness blooming in his chest again at the thought that not only had Castiel placed him in a pretty isolated room, but he’d also chosen one with a bathroom nearby, probably so that Dean would not need to wander around too much and risk running into anyone too often.

Just like he’d done before, though, he pushed that feeling away quickly, swallowing it down before he could think too much about it.

He made a quick stop at the linen closet to get himself a clean towel, but he still reached the bathroom soon enough, fortunately without running into anyone, and he let out a sigh of relief as soon as he was inside the deserted room, feeling some of the tension melting away from his muscles, even if he knew that he would need to walk back to that bedroom when he was done in here and he could still run into someone then.

One thing at time, he thought. One thing at a time.

The bathroom was a lot bigger than he’d expected, with several showers lined up along one wall and sinks on the other—it really looked like some kind of common washroom or something, which kind of made sense. He left his clean change of clothes on one of the sinks, before walking over to the cabinet on the wall beside the door, inside of which Dean found some supplies—a few bars of soap, bottles of shampoo and hair conditioner, and even freaking body lotion. He figured he was allowed to take something from the cabinet, so he grabbed a new bar of soap, before undressing himself, leaving his dirty clothes on another sink, then choosing the shower in the farthest corner of the room and closing the curtains, shielding himself from the rest of the world.

He took a quick shower, even if the water pressure in this place was so surprisingly amazing that Dean felt like he could spend actual _hours_ under that delicious spray of warm water. He’d been hopeful that a good, long shower might help ease the tension in his muscles and somehow make him feel better, but soon enough it became clear that wouldn’t be happening. If anything, taking a shower only made things even worse, because Dean’s mind ended up wandering to places where he definitely didn’t want it to go right now, and he found that trying to stop that from happening now was a lot harder than it had been earlier.

He dried himself off quickly, then stumbled out of the shower and got dressed hastily, suddenly feeling the air far too thin in his lungs. His stomach lurched, a strong wave of nausea washing over his insides and coiling dangerously in his gut, and he wasn’t sure if Castiel had been right earlier and this was his body finally rejecting that damn beer or if it was something else entirely, but either way, Dean just knew that he had to get out of that bathroom.

So that’s what he did. Soon enough, he was grabbing his things and all but running out of that room, briefly remembering that he’d intended to brush his teeth as he glanced down at the toothbrush firmly grasped in his hand, but he ended up deciding that wasn’t important right now. He also ended up taking his used, wet towel with him because he didn’t really feel like making a trip to the laundry room right now, deciding that he could deal with that later, preferably when he didn’t feel like he was about to puke out his freaking guts all over the floor.

His steps were hurried—and a little unsteady, honestly—as he made his way back to the bedroom where he would apparently be spending his next thirty nights or so, walking fast, fearful that his luck might run out and he may actually run into someone as he made his way down that hallway.

But fortunately, that didn’t happen, and less than two minutes later Dean was already back inside the bedroom Castiel had brought him to earlier, closing the door shut behind himself a bit more loudly than he’d intended to and locking it.

He pressed his back against the hard, wooden surface of it as soon as the door was closed, feeling his legs give out under his weight, and he allowed himself to slide down to the cold, hard floor, dropping all of his things without caring where they landed. He bent his knees, bringing his legs closer to his body so that he could rest his elbows on them and lowering his face onto his palms, before allowing his hands to travel upward, grabbing at his hair and pulling at the strands just as he’d done before, feeling his breath coming short and heart speeding up inside his chest, ringing loudly in his ears.

Suddenly, it was all too much for him.

He’d been holding it all back since Superior, had kept all the thoughts he knew would tip him right over the edge locked away in a dark corner of his mind, bottled up inside of him, hidden behind a wall he’d hoped wouldn’t come down so soon, but apparently that barrier had been weaker than he’d thought, more fragile than he’d intended. He’d pushed it all down, refusing to break down in front of Meg and Tom, then of his father, then of Castiel, and then of all the other hybrids and the witch. He hadn’t even allowed himself to cry in the car on the way here, too afraid—and a little embarrassed, honestly—that Castiel might look in his rearview mirror and notice it from his own car.

But now that he was all alone in this foreign place, with a bunch of non-human strangers that he knew he would not be able to put up with for too long, wishing for nothing more than to be able to go back in time and fix this whole freaking mess, he found that he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

He’d never, ever get his life back. Meg had turned him into a monster, the very thing he’d spent his entire life hunting, that he’d spent actual _decades_ devoted to ridding this world of, and there was no coming back from that, not now, not after he killed that girl. No cure would work now. There was no way to reverse this, no way for him to become human again, for him to ever be _normal_ again _._ His only options here were to either kill himself—or rather, get _someone else_ to kill him—or to live with this, as a cursed creature, one of the things—well, two of them, actually—that he hated the most in this world.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

The nausea was even stronger now, burning in his stomach like battery acid, threatening to make him hurl right then and there, all over the floor of that bedroom, but he swallowed once, twice, _thrice_ , trying to keep that urge at bay. His eyes were stinging, filling up with the tears that he’d fought so vehemently up until now, but that he could no longer hold back, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop them from falling this time.

Either way, no matter how this whole thing played out, he’d never see his family again. That was just how it had to be, no matter what path he chose for himself from now on.

He’d never hunt with his Dad again, or hear Bobby swearing at him for drinking all his beer in a foreign language Dean didn’t understand. He’d never eat another one of Ellen’s burgers, or annoy the hell out of Jo while she worked behind the bar over at the Roadhouse, or show up at Jody’s house unannounced to spend an afternoon eating cold pizza and watching more cheesy chick flicks than he could actually remember.

He’d never get to see Sam get married and have kids. He’d never get to see that bright smile on his little brother’s face when he finally got everything he’d ever dreamed of, everything he’d somehow found the guts to quit hunting for years ago, unlike Dean. He’d never get to tease Sam again, to joke around with him, to call him Sammy in front of Jess just to see that trademark bitchface of his. He’d never again get to stop by Sam’s white-picket-fence house to visit and have a nice, cold beer with his brother while they talked about nothing in particular. He’d never, ever even _hear Sam’s voice again._

He dry-heaved a few times, choking on empty air, but fortunately, he managed to keep the contents of his stomach down for now. The tears were already falling by that point, though, and he didn’t even realize it until it was already happening, but he didn’t try to stop them. No, he just let them flow, let them slide down his cheeks, feeling the pain in his chest grow so strong that there might as well be a hand curled around his heart, squeezing at it, ready to just rip the thing right out of his ribcage and toss it across the room.

If only he were that lucky.

The first loud, ugly sob that jumped from his mouth was unexpected, startling even, and he hurried to press a hand over his mouth, fearful that someone might hear him, because the last thing he needed right now was for Castiel to show up here asking him if he was okay.

No, he wasn’t fucking okay. He would _never_ be okay again. But he didn’t want anyone to see this. He didn’t want anyone to witness him break down, to watch him crumble and turn into a crying, sobbing mess on the floor.

But even if his thoughts were nothing more than a jumbled mess of painful memories in that moment, there was one thing that became crystal clear to him right then, one thought that stood out amongst all the others, one that echoed louder than anything else inside his head. He just wanted this to be over, right here, right now. He didn’t want to go through this, to have to endure this curse for any longer than he already had. He wanted it _over_.

He just wanted to fucking die.

But he’d made a deal with Castiel, and Dean Winchester was a man of his word, so he would keep his promise. As much as it hurt, as much as he _hated_ this, he would give Castiel the month he’d asked for.

And thirty days from now, Castiel would kill him, and everything would be fine again.

But maybe his father would find him before that, Dean mused. John hadn’t been around when he and Castiel had gone back to Superior to fetch the Impala—his father’s truck hadn’t even been parked in the motel parking lot, actually—but his Dad’s things had still been in their room, which meant that John would have to come back for them eventually, and when that happened, he would undoubtedly notice that the Impala was gone, as well as all of Dean’s things. Secretly, that had been another reason why Dean had wished to go back for his things—part of him hoped that once John figured out that he wasn’t actually dead, that the silver bullet had failed, his father would come after him, hunt him down and put Dean out of his misery before his month was up. Maybe his Dad would even find this place and kill everyone in it—Dean, Castiel, Balthazar, Benny, Crowley and Rowena. They were all monsters, after all. John would only be doing his job.

Dean could only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed Warning **(with spoilers!)** : Dean is turned into a vampire-werewolf hybrid in this first chapter, and he begs his father to kill him. John hesitates, but ends up shooting Dean with a silver bullet, **which is not enough to kill a hybrid** , although neither of them knows that at that point. After that, Dean will be pretty much suicidal. He wants to die, and he thinks about that very often throughout the rest of this chapter. He'll actually keep that mindset for a while. This first chapter turned out pretty strong and heavy because of that, especially near the end.
> 
> -
> 
> I love comments very much. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the positive feedback!! :D I really didn't expect to get so many comments and kudos on the first chapter. Every single one of them made me so happy! Seriously, thank you!!<33 :)
> 
> So, here's a brand new chapter! And this one's even longer than the last one! :D (For those who don't know me—my word counts tend to get ridiculously high. Just a little heads up. ;P)
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains more **suicidal thoughts from a Main Character**. It also contains some graphic, canon-typical violence, as well as the death of a few minor characters. There are also a few mentions of animal death.
> 
> Disclaimer: The wolves in this story (not the werewolves, just the wolves that the _hybrids_ turn into) were loosely inspired by the werewolves from Twilight, which I do not own.

***~*~*~*~***

**2014**

***~*~*~*~***

Surprisingly, Dean actually made it through the night.

He wasn’t sure how long exactly he spent sitting on that cold floor, his back pressed against the wooden door right behind him while he repeatedly choked on empty air, unable to stop sob after sob from rocking his entire body, leaving him breathless and disoriented, his vision blurred as an endless string of tears constantly flowed out of his eyes, sliding over his skin and leaving wet trails in their wake. At some point, his hands actually started shaking, and he buried them in his hair so that he wouldn't notice their trembling. And to make it all even worse, his head had started spinning soon after that, making him dizzy and even more nauseous as Dean tried to get himself to fucking calm down, to regain control over his own body and emotions, to somehow stop that nervous breakdown, but he never quite managed it.

Throughout the night, there were three moments during which Dean had actually considered leaving this place. His resolve had wavered briefly in those moments, and he’d honestly thought about storming out of that room and marching right out of that damn Bunker, simply taking off in the middle of the night while everyone was hopefully asleep. He’d truly considered just grabbing his duffel and going over to the garage, quickly slipping inside his car and driving away, vanishing into the night without looking back.

But for some reason, he didn’t actually do that. Instead, he eventually got himself to stop sobbing and somehow managed to get up from the floor, before moving over to the bed and letting himself fall tiredly onto the mattress with a low huff, though of course the tears never stopped falling completely, not even for a little while. And he did end up puking that beer, but thankfully there was a sink in that room for some fucking reason, so when the nausea got a little too overwhelming, Dean had simply run across the room and emptied his stomach into the sink instead of all over the freaking floor.

After the beer was gone and his stomach was left empty and aching, the nausea had thankfully gone away, which Dean was very much glad for, so he'd decided it was safe to drag himself back to bed, allowing his body to simply collapse on top of it once more.

He'd ended up spending the rest of the night quietly sniffing to himself and staring blankly up at the ceiling, wondering how the hell his life could have taken such a turn for the worst so freaking fast. He just couldn’t understand how something like this could have happened to him—and everything had been so _sudden_ , too, so _abrupt_. Just a few days ago, everything had been _fine_. His life had been normal, and he’d been okay. He’d been hunting with his Dad, doing what he always did—doing what he did _best_ , really.

And now, here he was.

Eventually, though, Dean had come to the conclusion that maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised or angry that this had happened to him. Hunters always got a bloody ending, after all. He’d been aware of that fact throughout his entire life, ever since his father had started taking him on hunts and Dean had been able to see just how easy it was for everything to go south while working a case, how the smallest, most insignificant mistake could end up costing him his life, or someone else’s. Honestly, he was a bit surprised that he’d lasted this long. He was 35 years old, with almost two whole decades of hunting under his belt, which was a lot farther than most hunters normally managed to get. People like him normally died young.

And he’d done a lot in his time, too—saved a lot of people, killed a lot of monsters. He’d really done a lot of good, and it wasn’t like the world would miss him, anyway. There were countless other good hunters out there—his father, for instance, as well as Bobby, Jody, Ellen, Jo, Donna—so it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be anyone around to continue on with the life when Dean was gone.

He could die. The best option here truly would be for him to die, and he was very much aware of that, not to mention that he was pretty much willing to go through with that plan. He truly _wanted_ to die, because then he would just be done with this whole thing and that would be it. This nightmare would finally be over and he wouldn’t have to feel like this anymore. Part of him—most of him, really—seemed to think that he should just take off the next chance he got and never look back, that he should just go out looking for his father so that John could kill him, only Dean would make sure his Dad did it right this time.

But then there was another part of him—just a small, tiny part of him, although one he found he couldn't quite ignore—that kept arguing against that plan, that kept pointing out that maybe there was a job for him here, that maybe he should really stick to his word and not get himself killed just yet, just so he could study this nest of hybrids—or was it a pack? He had no fucking idea—more closely. He had a great opportunity here, one that no other hunter would ever have, most likely. Castiel had literally _brought_ Dean into their secret lair, for fuck’s sake. And if the hunter really did end up deciding that he should kill all the hybrids that lived in this place _and_ the witch, then he would have to do that before offing himself—or rather, before he went off to find someone else to do it for him, since Castiel wouldn’t be able to hold his end of the deal if Dean killed him.

But so far, Dean hadn't yet managed to figure out which side was currently winning. He’d stayed up all night battling with himself, trying to decide what the fuck he should do here, and when morning finally came, it found him wide awake and terribly tired, not to mention incredibly nauseous again, even if there certainly wasn’t anything left in his stomach for him to puke out. Actually, his stomach was very much hurting now, aching nonstop, the pain sharp and pretty damn difficult to ignore, but Dean had no other choice but to try to do just that.

He didn't think he could actually eat anything right now, but maybe drinking something might lessen that horrible ache, he reasoned. He already knew that water wouldn't do much good, since it'd done absolutely nothing for him when he'd tried drinking a bit of it from the tap in that room at one point during the night, but maybe he could try something else—coffee, he thought, or maybe even beer again. That might make him even more nauseous, true, but if it helped with the pain, then it would definitely be worth throwing up a couple more times.

However, the last thing he wanted to do right now was leave that room and have to deal with any of those freaks so early in the day, so instead, he just stayed exactly where he was, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the insistent ache in his belly, even when he heard someone moving around out in the hallway—though fortunately, whoever was out there didn’t try to come in or anything. They simply walked past that room without pause, probably headed to the laundry room or the bathroom—not that Dean cared which one was actually the case.

No one bothered him for a few more hours, thankfully, until eventually Dean heard someone approaching that room again, and this time, much to the hunter's annoyance, a knock sounded through the wood, filling the air of the room with the low, hollow sound of someone's knuckles rapping lightly against the door a few times.

For a second, Dean considered telling whoever was out there to just fuck off and leave him alone, but then he breathed in and _oh god, was that fucking **coffee** that he smelled coming from the other side of that door?_

Without another thought, Dean opened his mouth, ready to yell out that the door was open, but the words died in his throat when he remembered that he’d locked it last night when he’d come back to this room after his failure of a shower. So with a low, unhappy groan, Dean forced himself to get up from the bed, slowly making his way over to the door on unsteady, wobbly legs. He hurried to pick up all the stuff he'd left scattered all over the floor last night—his towel, clothes and toothbrush—before shoving all of it into the empty closet to his left, successfully concealing the mess. And once that was dealt with, Dean finally unlocked the door and pulled it open, only to find Castiel standing right outside the room. That heavy, ugly tan trench coat from yesterday was gone, along with the fancy suit, and today, Castiel was wearing jeans and a simple plain white dress shirt, which for some reason looked weird on him, too casual.

Dean didn’t comment on that, of course, because he didn’t even _know_ the guy, really. Also, all Dean could really focus on in that moment was the fact that Castiel was holding a big blue mug filled with delicious-smelling, _marvelous_ coffee.

Suddenly, the ache inside of Dean seemed to lessen just a tiny, _tiny_  little bit. He had no idea what the hell that was about, but he chose not to question it.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted him with a small nod of his head. He seemed tense, his shoulders stiff, his voice and face even more serious than Dean assumed was normal for the guy. He was probably still wary after Dean yelled at him last night. The hunter couldn't exactly blame him for it.

“Hey,” Dean replied, and his voice came out raspy and throaty and really fucking awful, like he’d spent the entire night gargling with fucking rocks or something. But, well, he’d pretty much spent it crying and puking his freaking guts out, so maybe that shouldn’t be much of a surprise.

“I, uh…” Castiel glanced down, lifting the mug in what seemed to be a silent peace offering, before he finally met Dean’s eyes again. He looked pretty uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure how he should act around the hunter, like he expected Dean to just start yelling at him again any second now. “I thought you might want some coffee, if you’re not feeling too nauseous for it. You barely got any sleep.”

Dean frowned at him for a moment, briefly wondering how the hell Castiel could even know that, but just a moment later he realized that the guy had most likely heard Dean sobbing and sniffing all through the night with his freaky supernatural hearing, which was honestly the last thing Dean wanted to deal with right now.

Awesome.

Dean felt his face burning a little with embarrassment, but he still nodded—although a bit stiffly—and somehow, he managed to keep his voice steady and calm as he replied, “Yeah, I… I could really use some coffee, actually. Thanks.” He reached out, and Castiel handed him the mug carefully, almost hesitantly, once again treating Dean like he was a jumpy, skittish wild animal. Again, that analogy wasn’t too far from the truth if you really thought about it.

Dean pushed that thought away as soon as it crossed his mind and hurried to lift the mug up to his lips, swallowing a mouthful of steaming hot coffee without pause, without a moment of hesitation, feeling glad when the scalding liquid burned painfully as it made its way down his esophagus.

_Ah_. Just what he needed.

His nausea was still going strong, but Dean chose to ignore it completely, focusing on the instant effect the caffeine had on his body instead. He was still feeling a little dizzy, though—probably from getting up so fast, he reasoned—so he kept his hands firmly wrapped around the dark blue body of the mug as he slowly turned around and made his way back toward the bed, sitting down on its edge, still carefully cradling his precious coffee in his hands.

He took another big sip from the mug once he was seated, then closed his eyes with a small sigh, already feeling a bit better.

“That might make you a bit more nauseous, but hopefully not too much. Coffee helps sometimes, with the... hunger, though no one's sure why exactly,” Castiel explained, and Dean couldn't help but frown a little, because that was a little weird. “I wouldn’t try to actually _eat_ anything now if I were you, though.”

Right. Because he needed blood now and all.

Well, fuck that.

Dean didn’t actually share that last thought out loud, though, because he really didn’t feel like arguing with Castiel again, not after the truly horrible night of sleep—well, of _no_ sleep at all and a whole lot of crying, actually—that he’d had.

So instead, what came out of the hunter's mouth next was, “So hybrids really can eat? Like… actual food and stuff? Because I wouldn't guess they could.” He remembered Castiel mentioning something around those lines last night, but Dean had been too out of it to really to inquire about it at the time. He’d always known that vampires could drink alcohol, which probably meant that they could drink pretty much anything, and that explained how Dean could drink both beer and coffee, but he’d always believed that those creatures just didn’t eat at all. They didn’t actually _need_ to, right?

Castiel was still standing just outside the door, and he seemed to debate with himself for a brief moment before he finally decided to step forward, walking into the room slowly, carefully, his body still very clearly stiff and tense. He looked pretty awkward and uncomfortable, still obviously feeling the need to walk on eggshells around Dean. He stopped just a couple of steps into the room, and then finally focused his blue eyes on the hunter again.

“Normal vampires usually choose not to,” he explained, as if he could read Dean’s mind, though the hunter knew his train of thought must have been pretty obvious based on his last comment alone, so he didn’t worry about it too much like he had the last time that exact same thought had occurred to him. “They can’t exactly taste food, as far as I know, so normally they don’t even try to eat. There’s just no point to it for them. But we’re half-werewolf, and werewolves eat. If we keep a… healthy diet, with a consistent intake of blood, we can eat anything we want, and it tastes exactly as it did before. Although… you _might_ like your meat a little rarer now.”

Dean huffed, muttering bitterly, “And a few human hearts during the full moon, too.”

“Actually, no.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at Castiel in a silent question. What the hell did that mean?

Castiel seemed to ponder his next words for just a brief moment before he explained, “Firstly, we turn at will. We don’t need the full moon for that, although we do feel the urge to shift during it as well, especially on the night of the apex. But we don’t actually have to shift if we don’t want to. And we turn into actual wolves, not those… half-forms that normal werewolves turn into.”

Oh, wow, that was… new, and a little weird. Dean had certainly not expected to hear that at all, and his eyebrows rose up to his forehead again, this time purely in surprise.

“So you’re saying that if I wanted to, I could turn into an actual freaking wolf _right now?”_ The single thought of it was already too much for Dean to process.

“Well, not right now,” Castiel corrected calmly, patiently. “I don’t think you’d be able to shift just yet. For a newly-turned, it would be best to wait for the full moon. You’ll feel the urge to shift then, so it’ll be easier for you to learn how to do it for the first time—or, well, that’s how it was for me, anyway. But after that, yes, you should be able to turn whenever you want to, and you’ll be conscious in wolf form, too. You won’t become a… a rabid, mindless animal or anything of the sort, and you certainly won't feel the urge to hunt humans and eat their hearts. If you're hungry, then of course you'll still crave their blood, but we definitely don't eat human hearts. And again, if you keep a healthy diet, you should be able to control your instincts pretty well, even during the full moon. So when you shift, you’ll still be yourself, just…" His shoulders rose and fell in a small shrug, "A wolf.”

Dean held back a scoff at the calm, almost nonchalant way Castiel said all that, especially that last past. _Fuck no._  Dean sure as hell had no fucking intention of learning how to shift into a fucking _wolf_ , thank you very much.

But of course, he chose not to share that thought out loud either. Again, he really didn’t want to start an argument right now.

“That sounds more like a skinwalker than a werewolf,” he pointed out instead.

For some reason, Castiel seemed slightly amused by that comment, the corner of his mouth quirking up just a tiny bit, the reaction so small and subtle that Dean almost missed it. “True, but apart from turning into animals at will and having a problem with silver, we don’t actually have anything else in common with them.”

Dean really hated how Castiel kept using the word ‘we’ to explain everything. He really, _really_ fucking hated that he was included in that ‘we’, so much that he actually had to hold back a flinch every time it happened.

Before the hunter could say anything, Castiel spoke again, “I, uh… I also came by to warn you that I went out last night to get you some animal blood." Briefly, Dean wondered if Castiel had somehow sensed just how tense and uncomfortable the hunter was feeling in that moment and had decided to change the subject. Not that it was any easier for Dean to talk about _that_  new subject in particular, but at least they weren't talking about how he might be able to turn into _an actual fucking wolf_  anymore, and at this point, Dean would take what he could get. “It’s in the fridge—farthest door to the right, close to the wall, bottom self. So… it’s there, if you really want it. It’s, uh… it’s deer.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose again, though a lot less than they had before. He swallowed thickly before he asked, “You actually killed a deer?”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s an easy task when your wolf is as big as mine.” And hey, look at that, they were talking about wolves again.

Great.

Castiel didn’t sound like he was bragging, though—the way he said it, completely calm and casual, made it clear that he didn’t think he was doing anything more than simply stating a fact—and despite everything, despite all of the hunter's reservations concerning that particular topic, Dean had to admit that he grew a bit curious about one thing.

“How big are we talking here?” he couldn’t help but ask, a slight frown forming in his brows.

Castiel shrugged again. “As tall as me when it’s standing on four legs. That’s normally how it goes.”

Oh, wow, that was… impressive. Dean tried pretty hard to keep his surprise from showing on his face, but he could easily tell that he failed miserably at it, so he didn’t even bother trying to stop his awe from bleeding into his voice when he commented, “That’s, uh… That’s a pretty big wolf.”

“You’re taller than me,” Castiel replied, still sounding completely casual, “So yours should be even bigger.”

And Dean had absolutely nothing to say in response to that, so he just took another big gulp from his coffee, feeling a pang of disappointment when he realized that it was no longer painfully hot. Now it was just… well, hot.

Damn it.

“I just thought I should warn you about the blood,” Castiel continued when he seemed to realize that Dean wouldn’t say anything, after he’d been just awkwardly standing there in the middle of the room for about half a minute waiting for a response. “I’d better go, or I’ll be late for work.”

Those words had yet another frown bleeding onto Dean’s brows. He blinked at Castiel a couple of times, confused, but then he remembered their very first conversation, on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, Kansas.

Right. Castiel had a job and all. Dude had even made a whole speech about it, too.

“What the hell do you even do?” Dean asked before he could stop himself. He wasn't sure why exactly, but he was curious about it.

For some reason, Castiel hesitated for a beat before answering, “I, uh… I work at a Gas-N-Sip.”

Oh. Okay. Definitely not what Dean had expected to hear, but okay. He wasn't sure what exactly he'd expected to hear, really, but he knew it wasn't that. Again, the guy looked like a freaking tax accountant, especially with that whole coat-and-suit combo from yesterday, and the hunter had to admit that he’d been expecting to hear something of that sort, so he was a bit surprised to learn that his guess had been so incredibly wrong.

“I was a doctor, though, for a few years.”

“What?” Dean’s eyebrows rose once again, and this time he didn’t even try to hide his surprise in any way, and instead let it take over his features without a fight. He had to admit it, though—Castiel being a doctor was a little easier to imagine. It kinda suited him, in a way.

Dean frowned as soon as that thought occurred to him, because he had no idea where the hell it had even come from. Again, he didn't even _know_ the guy.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking, “But why did you… stop?”

Castiel let his gaze drop to the floor, and his face fell a little. He looked even more uncomfortable all of a sudden, and his shoulders slumped visibly at his sides, which all made Dean wonder if he really should have asked about the guy’s job to begin with. Apparently, it was a bit of a touchy subject.

But how the hell was Dean supposed to know that?

“My family thinks I’m dead,” Castiel finally said, voice sounding lower than normal, almost somber. “And legally, that’s true, which makes it a bit difficult to actually work as a licensed doctor. And even if Rowena has… offered to help with that, I can’t take the risk of my family having a way to track me down. I can’t take the risk of them ever finding me here. They… they might still be looking for me.”

Dean had no idea what he could possibly say in response to that, so he fell silent for a moment. Castiel’s explanation had done nothing more than cause even more questions to worm their way into the hunter’s head, like how the hell Rowena could help with Castiel’s medical license or what exactly had happened with the guy’s family. Dean could tell that last one must have something to do with how Castiel had been turned into a hybrid, but even if he felt a little curious about it, the hunter bit his tongue and swallowed back all his questions before they could jump from his lips. It just wasn’t his place to ask them, and anyway, it wasn’t like he actually wanted to _talk_ to Castiel for any longer, like he wanted to prolong this conversation in any way. That was the last thing he wanted to do right now, in fact, even if he did feel a bit curious about the other man’s potentially tragic backstory.

So in the end, all Dean did was nod slowly in response, muttering a, “Fair enough,” before taking another sip from his coffee.

Castiel just stood there awkwardly for another moment, before he finally nodded as well, as though soundlessly declaring that conversation to be over. He turned around and walked over to the door without another word, apparently deciding that the best thing he could do in that moment was leave before things grew too tense and awkward again.

Dean’s eyes followed him all the way to the door, and as much as the hunter hated this whole situation, as annoyed and honestly suicidal as he was feeling in that moment, he had to admit one thing to himself.

Castiel had a pretty nice behind.

Okay, don’t look at him like that. He had _eyes_ , for fuck’s sake, and Castiel just happened to look exactly like the kind of guy that would catch Dean’s attention at a bar whenever the hunter was looking for a one night stand, with his sharp features, incredibly blue eyes and messy dark hair. Dean had simply been way too freaked out yesterday to really appreciate that fact. Also, those slacks and the big, long overcoat that the guy had been wearing yesterday really hadn't helped all that much.

But those jeans and shirt he was wearing today definitely did. They helped quite a bit, actually.

Not that Dean had any intention of doing anything about that—in fact, he had absolutely  _no_ plans at all in that regard. Castiel was definitely attractive—and he seemed to be hiding some pretty fine muscles under all those clothes, if the way his white dress shirt hugged his body a bit too tightly in some places was anything to go by—but Dean had zero intention of getting horizontal with the guy.

Castiel paused before he was actually out of the room, body halfway through the doorway when his steps halted without a warning, one foot resting on the floor of the hallway and the other still inside the bedroom when he suddenly turned back around. Fortunately, Dean's eyes had already wandered back up when that happened, or else things might have become incredibly awkward really fucking fast.

“Oh, and if you do decide to try the animal blood," Castiel started, thankfully very much oblivious to where exactly Dean's mind had wandered off to for a moment, "I… I feel the need to advise you to do so somewhere near a sink, or a toilet. Just… to be safe.”

Dean wasn’t sure what the hell he should say in response to that, so he just nodded, clenching his jaw and swallowing drily.

And much to his relief, Castiel didn’t say anything else. He simply gave the hunter one last sharp, awkward nod, before he turned back around and quickly vanished from sight as he finally left the room, leaving the hunter alone once again.

Not that the prospect of being alone with his own thoughts again was in any way thrilling or exciting, especially after the night he’d had, but it was still way better than talking to anyone in this Bunker, and again, Dean would take whatever he could get at this point.

He finished his coffee far too quickly, and it didn’t take long at all for that annoying, persistent nausea that had bothered him throughout the entire freaking night to make itself known once again. It started off weak at first, just an uncomfortable little twinge in his stomach that had him shifting on the bed and wincing, simply hoping that the feeling would pass eventually, but of course that didn’t happen. And this time, the nausea got a lot worse pretty damn fast—a lot faster than it had last night, in fact—and with it, soon came the pain—this awful burning feeling in his belly, a sharp ache that had him doubling over, like something had ripped inside of him, like his stomach was actually trying to digest _itself_. At some point, it got so bad that he even drank some water from the tap again, holding on to a tiny, flimsy shred of hope that it would somehow make things better, that it might ease the pain inside of him at least for a little while, but of course the water did nothing to help him.

By the time he started dry-heaving and feeling bile climbing up his throat, Dean decided that he truly had no other choice here. There really was no point in postponing it, in trying to run from it for any longer. This would only get worse from here. Waiting would only make it even harder for him.

With a lot of effort and letting out a handful of groans in complaint, Dean lifted his body from the mattress and hoisted himself up to his feet, marching out of that room and down the hallway with hurried steps, all but praying that he wouldn’t run into anyone as he made his way back to the main area of the Bunker—or, well, at least he _hoped_ he was going in the right direction, anyway. He was pretty sure he was, at least.

And as it turned out, much to his relief, his sense of direction was still working just fine, because only a couple of minutes later, the hunter finally found himself standing in the hallway that separated the war room from the kitchen, and he saw no sign of anyone anywhere, in either of those two rooms. Everyone else was probably either still asleep or out.

Good.

As soon as he walked into the kitchen, however, Dean caught whiff of something truly rotten, like whatever food these creatures had stored inside their fridge had gone bad overnight, because Dean was certain that this room definitely hadn’t smelled like that last night. He grimaced, feeling his nausea growing even more intense for a moment, his stomach sloshing unpleasantly, so much that Dean actually glanced over at the sink by the wall, briefly wondering if he should make a run for it before he puked all over the floor. But fortunately, that wasn’t necessary—he managed to hold the urge to hurl back for now, even as he opened the door of the fridge inside of which Castiel had supposedly stored the animal blood.

And that was when Dean figured out where that truly _putrid_ smell was coming from.

He stumbled a bit as he moved, turning around and quickly running across the room and over to the sink, gripping the edge of it so strongly in his hands that the metal bent beneath his palms, but he paid that fact no mind as he dry-heaved several times, spitting into the sink and breathing heavily through his mouth as he fiercely battled the urge to throw up. Somehow, he managed to keep the contents of his stomach down, but just barely.

Fuck, that smelled bad. How the hell was he supposed to _drink_  that _?_

But he had to. He couldn’t drink human blood, so if he was going to do this, if he really wanted to keep his end of the deal he'd made with Castiel, if he truly intended to try to live his next twenty nine days as a damn fucking hybrid, then he had to do this. He had to drink animal blood, no matter how fucking disgusting it was, no matter how vehemently his body made clear that it was against the idea. This was his only option. Who knew what he’d do if he went too long without any blood and just… snapped? He could _kill_ someone, for fuck’s sake. And he wouldn’t let that happen. He _wouldn’t._

Not again.

He kept breathing solely through his mouth, pulling in several big mouthfuls of air and letting them out slowly, carefully releasing one after the other as he forced himself to move away from that sink and walk back over to the open fridge. With a trembling hand, Dean reached out and grabbed one of the three small milk bottles that Castiel had apparently filled with deer blood, slamming the fridge door closed a little too strongly once he was holding one of the bottles in his hand, fingers firmly wrapped around the cold glass. He heard the telltale sound of several items rattling inside the fridge as the door slammed shut, but he ignored it, choosing to simply dart out of the kitchen and back down the hallway, heading to the bathroom near the laundry room as he decided that maybe Castiel did have a point. He should definitely drink this by a sink or a toilet, just to be safe. He really didn’t feel like cleaning up regurgitated deer blood.

He closed the door of the bathroom as soon as he was inside, still breathing heavily, though now he could feel his heart pounding frantically inside his chest, the sound of it ringing loudly in his ears. He could only hope that Castiel had already left for work, and if any of the others were still around, holed up somewhere in that Bunker, that none of them would come here to bother him, because he really wanted to do this alone. He really didn’t need a damn audience for this.

The bottled deer blood smelled even worse when he actually uncapped it, the sour, putrid smell of it filling the air of the room alarmingly fast and making Dean gag several times, but no matter how bad his nausea actually got, no matter how much his stomach lurched in protest, he did his best to ignore the urge to throw up. And without thinking too much about it, before he could actually change his mind about this, Dean lifted the bottle up to his lips in one quick, swift motion, taking several big gulps from it as soon as the cool glass met his lips, refusing to breathe between each one and swallowing all the blood that flowed into his mouth all at once, without pause, keeping his eyes closed throughout all of it.

He only stopped after the fourth mouthful, finally pulling the bottle away from his mouth and swallowing a few more times, pressing his lips together firmly in order to stop any of the blood he’d just ingested from slipping out of his mouth. The beast within him screamed in agony and disgust, practically foaming at the mouth as it demanded that he give it what it truly wanted, because _how dare he try to fool it like this?_ His nausea grew sharper, stronger, more aggressive, and Dean gagged a few more times, but he _refused_ to throw up. He knew he could keep that blood down. He _knew_ it. He wouldn’t allow himself to puke it out. He _wouldn’t_. He just had to—

It happened too fast, and Dean had no chance to stop it. Before he could even process what was happening, his stomach was cramping and he was bending over the sink, barely even managing to avoid dropping the milk bottle as he set it aside before he was tossing the contents of his stomach into the sink, painting the porcelain in a truly sickening shade of red as he threw up every single drop of deer blood he’d just forced down his throat. And when it was finally over, Dean found himself coughing and panting as he struggled to pull enough air into his lungs with every breath he took. His head was spinning and his insides were burning, and that damn nausea was still there, sitting in his stomach like a plague, a disease. That emptiness inside of him had grown even harder to ignore, so deep and... _present_ , so obvious and insistent that it was almost like it was threatening to swallow him whole, and it _hurt._

_Fuck,_ it hurt so _fucking much._ Why did it _hurt_ like this?

Dean’s hands shook where was gripping the edge of the sink as he dry-heaved a few more times, even though he was pretty sure there wasn’t anything else left in his stomach for him to puke out. He stayed like that for quite a while, and from time to time, he would spit out some more blood mixed with saliva into the sink, just to try and cleanse his mouth of the disgusting taste of deer blood stubbornly clinging to his tongue, but that did very little to help with his lingering nausea.

He assumed the way that disgusting, _rotten_ smell was still hanging heavily in the air around him wasn’t helping either, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that one. It wasn't like he could just open a window, because apparently this place didn't actually _have_ any windows—but, well, this Bunker  _was_  hidden underground, so that made sense.

That whole experience had been the very opposite of pleasant, but Dean Winchester was anything if not stubborn, so a few minutes later, when he finally felt like he could actually do _anything_ without puking, he tried again, and he was happy to notice that he actually managed to last a full minute before he threw up again. But unfortunately, just like the first time he’d tried it, the handful of gulps he’d taken from the bottle of deer blood ended up flowing right out of his mouth and down the drain, painting the sink crimson, and Dean was left panting and heaving, struggling to catch his breath and fight that worryingly strong nausea—to absolutely no avail.

He tried a couple more times, but after throwing up for the fourth time in a row, Dean felt exhausted, and he ended up just sitting there on the cold tiled floor of the washroom with his back pressed against the wall by the sinks, his eyes closed in an effort to try to get the room around him to stop spinning. This obviously wouldn’t be easy—not _at all,_ in fact—but he was determined, and he’d managed to keep the blood down even longer the last time, so he knew he could do it. He just had to make his body understand that this disgusting, putrid-smelling deer blood was the only blood it would be getting, and that Dean was the one calling the shots here. He had to be stronger than this curse, stronger than whatever monster now lay within him, trying to take over the hunter’s life and strip him of his control over his own freaking body.

He could do this; he knew he could. He just had to be strong enough. He just had to keep fighting.

After all, this had to get easier with time, right?

***~*~*~*~***

It didn’t get easier with time.

Dean tried drinking the deer blood several more times throughout the next two days, but much to the hunter’s dismay, each time he did it was so much worse than the previous. By the third day, the pain in his stomach had grown so strong that he actually wondered if something might have ripped in there at some point, or maybe something might be trying to claw its way out of his body, tearing through whatever it found in its path. He could barely stop throwing up by the end of the second day, even when he didn’t drink the deer blood, even when there was nothing left in his stomach for his body to expel, so most of the time, all that came out of his mouth was just acid and what he assumed must be his own blood. His esophagus was pretty much constantly burning now, its inner walls probably red and raw, and he knew it would only get worse.

Fortunately, though, no one came to talk to him. He’d been certain that at some point, Castiel was just bound to come into that room again to try and convince Dean that he didn’t have to go through this, that drinking human blood from blood bags wouldn't make him a monster and all that bull crap that the guy had tried to feed Dean that first night.

But surprisingly, that didn’t happen. Castiel didn’t show up to talk to Dean at any point, no matter how many times the hunter threw up, no matter how much he coughed and gagged and dry-heaved. He didn’t stop by at all, not even once—no one did. It was like everyone had just decided to leave him be, to get out of Dean’s way, to give him the space he needed to deal with all this crap, and the hunter was extremely grateful for that; he really was. During those three days, he didn’t even _see_ another face that wasn’t the one of his own reflection in the mirror, and he was very glad for that, even if he was worryingly pale now. He actually looked sick.

Also, somehow, the fridge was always stocked with animal blood, every time Dean wandered out of that bedroom and over to the kitchen. He was working through the blood-filled milk bottles startlingly fast, considering he didn’t keep even ten percent of it down every time, but whenever he found the courage to leave that bedroom and go check the fridge—mostly in the morning, when everyone seemed to be gone or asleep, or maybe they really were all trying to just stay out of his way—every single time, he would find the fridge restocked, with two or three new bottles filled with animal blood there on the shelves, just waiting for him. Castiel never stopped by to warn Dean about that, though—apparently, the blue-eyed hybrid just went out to hunt every night and simply left the blood there for Dean, which was actually pretty considerate of him, and it _almost_ made Dean want to stop by his room to thank him.

Almost. He didn’t do it, though; of course not. He really didn’t need Castiel to see him like this, not to mention that the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was talk to _anyone_.

Dean knew he was a mess—he saw it every day in the mirror, every time he bent over the sink to empty his stomach, every time he just stood there panting and gagging, trying to keep his damn nausea at bay and control his heavy, ragged breathing, but failing miserably every single time. The pain was truly unbearable at this point, his head was constantly spinning, and his insides felt like they’d been ripped to shreds. His hands were shaking nonstop, and it had only been _three days._ How the hell had Castiel lasted a whole damn week like this?

Dean was barely even halfway into his fourth day as a damn hybrid now, and he could barely even _breathe. Everything_ hurt—fucking _everything._ He was losing it already—he could feel his control slowly slipping through the spaces between his fingers, crumbling to dust, becoming as solid as smoke as it curled and swirled in the air right in front of his eyes before vanishing completely, fading into nothing and leaving Dean feeling empty and hollow and really fucking unsteady. His entire body was constantly shaking at this point, his movements slow and sluggish, his vision going in and out of focus far too often, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Nausea coiled in his gut, and a thin layer of sweat had gathered on his skin, coating his body, making it glisten under the sole light bulb that hung from the ceiling right above the bed, like he had a fever or something. The monster within him kept screaming almost nonstop, roaring and snarling, howling in anger and digging its claws into Dean’s mind as it _demanded_ that he put an end to this, that he stop depriving it from what it—what _they—_ truly needed.

He wasn't so sure that he could actually do this anymore. He didn’t know how much longer he would be able to hold on to his sanity, to keep himself under control, but he could tell that at this rate, it definitely wouldn’t be long. He’d gotten substantially worse in only three days, and he wasn’t sure how the hell he was supposed to do this for even another day, let alone over _three fucking weeks._ He was no longer so certain that he was strong enough to fight this, to _resist._ His mind was too muddled already, his thoughts nothing more than a confusing jumble of syllables and images that didn’t entirely connect, that didn’t make any _sense._ He didn’t think… He couldn’t…

Another stomach cramp hit without a warning, knocking all the air right out of his lungs, and Dean wrapped an arm around his middle, folding his body forward, nearly curling up into a ball on top of the sheets. The cramps kept coming, and he rolled over, trying to find a better position, to find a way to lessen that awful ache, and suddenly he was lying on the floor, gasping for air, and he didn’t know how the hell that had even happened, since he’d been lying on the bed just a minute ago. Maybe he'd blacked out again—that had been happening pretty often, too. He gasped and panted, breath shaking as he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cold floor, hoping that might provide him with even the tiniest shred of clarity, because he couldn’t fucking _think._ He couldn’t concentrate on anything else apart from that nausea, and the pain, and how the room around him kept spinning, and spinning, and _fucking spinning—_

He couldn’t take this anymore. There was a hole inside of him, getting bigger and bigger with every second that passed, deep and dark and truly _terrifying_ , and if he didn’t do something about it, it would swallow him whole.

He really wasn’t thinking anymore—he probably wasn't even  _capable_ of doing that now. He felt numb, and weird, and confused, and all he was able to do was watch as his body moved on its own accord, lifting itself from the floor and stumbling over to the door, shaking and struggling to breathe, taking the steps that at this point had become almost familiar to him, until Dean found himself standing in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d gotten there, but he was way too out of it to care.

His steps were unsure and unsteady as he crossed the room and walked over to the fridge, and soon enough he was standing before one of the doors that he’d vowed to himself he would never open, that he’d written off in his mind as completely off-limits.

And yet, his hand rose in the air and went straight for the handle, pulling the fridge door open before he could even process what he was doing, his mind empty, completely devoid of rational thought, refusing to function properly. If he had the ability to think in that moment, he might have been able to realize that he was moving completely on instinct—he might have even felt _scared_ because of it—but those thoughts didn’t even cross his mind.

The smell that reached his nose was… _divine_. Fuck, it was the perfect mixture of everything good in this world, like all his favorite foods and smells combined into one, such a carefully constructed scent that made his brain short-circuit completely. His mouth watered, while his throat suddenly felt completely dry, painfully so. The ache in his stomach grew so sharp and strong that Dean had to wrap an arm around his middle again, bending his body over slightly as his other hand rose to press against the cold metal surface of the fridge, trying to maintain his balance.

Fuck, he just wanted that pain to go away. He just wanted it to _stop_.

He kept trying to breathe through his mouth, but that did very little to help clear his head. He’d already breathed in that scent, and his body would not allow him to move away from the source of it now, no matter what he did. And so, before he could even realize what he was doing, his arm unwrapped itself from around his middle, and the hand attached to it rose in the air, reaching into the fridge and grabbing something from it—the source of that delicious,  _glorious_ smell. His heart was still hammering inside his chest, but its rhythm seemed to grow even more frantic as soon as his hand was wrapped around the cold plastic body of a blood bag. His gums ached, but it was a sort of pain unlike what he’d felt back in the Nebraska. It wasn’t nearly as sharp, for one, but it also didn’t reflect too strongly in his jaws. It was just… uncomfortable, a lingering sort of ache that felt bothersome and annoying, but not at all unbearable. His eyes were stinging oddly, too, but _that_ sensation was a lot like what Dean had felt back in Superior.

But Dean didn’t actually have the chance to think too much about any of that. He spared all of it no more than a quick, fleeting thought, and then all he could really focus on was the blood bag he was holding in his hand. He brought it closer to his body, eyeing the thick, red liquid concealed inside of it with unwavering focus, like he was unable to look away. It truly was a mesmerizing sight—the way the blood danced inside the clear plastic body of the bag as Dean gripped it, as he squeezed it lightly, watching the bag adapt to the pressure his hand applied to it, easily changing its shape beneath his fingers.

He ripped the top of it effortlessly—the plastic didn’t even stand a chance as he gripped it and pulled, tearing the material just the right away so that none of the blood would actually spill—and before he could even realize what he was doing, before he could truly  _process_ what was happening, his hands were pressing the ripped top of the bag against his lips and he was sucking on it, his eyes slipping closed as a relieved sigh found its way out of his nose the moment his mouth was filled with blood. _Human_ blood.

And fuck, did it taste good. It tasted fucking  _amazing,_ really.

_Fuck. Fuck. **Fuck.**_

The blood was cold, and while a small part of him complained about that, it didn’t really matter—that cold blood was still enough, still exactly what he needed, and it seemed to warm him from the inside, seemed to awaken something deep inside of him, filling the hole in his stomach, soothing the beast that now resided within him, quenching a thirst that ran so deep it seemed to reach down to his very soul—if he still even _had_  a soul, that was. It truly was a wonder that he’d lasted so long without doing this. He truly had no idea how he'd done it.

The contents of the bag were gone in a little under a minute, and once Dean was done with it, all he could do was stare down at the empty bag, eyeing the dark red stains that painted the skin of his hands where he’d gripped it a little too tightly and some of its contents had slipped out while he’d been drinking, completely mesmerized by the sight—hypnotized, even.

He didn’t even think before bringing his hands up to his mouth and licking the blood off his skin, not willing to let even a single drop of it go to waste. When he was done with that, he let the empty bag fall to the floor by his feet, and then reached inside the fridge to grab a new one. He was quick to rip open the second bag and drain it just as fast as he’d done with the first one, and then he repeated that whole process with another bag, and then with another, drinking himself full without pause, not even a single rational thought present in his mind as he did it. It truly was like his instincts had completely taken over, like he was no longer in control, just going with the flow, letting his body call the shots and slipping into the backseat without a fight.

He stopped after the fifth bag, letting it fall just like he’d done with the others. He was breathing heavily as he leaned back against the counter behind him, pressing his back against it, and it was only in that moment that he realized that at some point, he’d apparently slid down to sit on the floor. He didn’t remember that happening at all, but he didn’t exactly dwell on it, not when his eyes found the five empty blood bags scattered around him on the floor.

And just like that, his mind cleared up, like a curtain being lifted, like a button had been pressed.

And that was the moment his mind truly registered what he’d just done.

“Fuck.”

He let his head fall to his hands as a shaky breath escaped his mouth, not even caring that he was probably getting blood all over his face.

Fuck, he’d really just done that. He’d actually just drunk human blood again— _five damn bags_ of it—just like the damn bloodsuckers he’d hated all his life, just like the monsters he’d vowed to rid this world of. He was so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t even bring himself to lift his head and look at all those empty bags a second time.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be postponing the inevitable. He knew Castiel wouldn’t change his mind about their deal, so he definitely wouldn’t agree to kill Dean now, no matter how much the hunter begged him to. But if Dean was so certain that this month would end with his death, that there was no other possible outcome here, then why the fuck should he put it off any longer? What was the point of dragging this out? He had the opportunity to rid this world of a monster right now, and he had to do it. He _had_ to.

And if this odd, annoying bunch of hybrids ever went rogue and started killing people, then some other hunter would surely find them here and deal with the problem, which unfortunately was something Dean himself could not do. Right now, Dean had to take care of _this_ problem, right here. He had to make things right, before it was too late.

Suddenly very intent on following through with that plan, Dean forced himself to stand up, hating how steady his legs felt, or how clear his mind suddenly was, or that the pain was completely _gone_. He had stopped shaking and his heart was no longer beating frantically inside his chest. The nausea was gone, too, a feeling of… calmness, of _ease_ left in its place, and Dean _hated_ it. He absolutely hated that all that human blood had suddenly made him feel completely fine—ecstatic, even, so different from how he’d been only a few minutes prior.

He left the mess on the floor, left the tiles littered with empty blood bags and the fridge door wide open, deciding that he didn’t really care for any of it, and went straight for the garage, where he’d left the Impala only three days prior. He didn’t run into anyone on his way there, thankfully, and soon enough he was speeding out of that damn Bunker, wanting nothing more than to just leave that place behind and never, ever come back.

He stepped down onto the gas, but not too recklessly, even if every single cell in his body wished for him to do so. He wouldn’t dare harm his Baby, and it wasn’t like wrapping his car around a pole would solve anything—it wouldn’t kill him, so what would be the fucking point of that?

So he simply drove. He drove and drove, for hours without end, swallowing repeatedly and swearing quietly, because he could still taste blood in his mouth. He drove without a destination, without caring where he was going, simply following the open road and putting miles upon miles between himself and that Bunker, fully intending on following through with his plan.

The only problem with said plan was… well, that he didn’t actually _have_ a plan.

He just knew he wanted to die, but that was all. And he couldn’t do it himself, or at least not easily, considering pulling his own heart out of his chest or cutting off his own head was probably not something he could actually do, so he had to find someone who wasn’t Castiel to do it.

His first thought was his Dad, of course. That had been his original plan, after all, but now that he was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, actually ready to just drive toward his old man and get this over with, the single thought of seeing that same haunted look from that night on John’s face again was something Dean didn’t think he could actually handle. He didn’t think he could do it. He didn’t think he could face his Dad. Now that a few days had passed since Superior, Dean had finally realized that he didn’t actually want his father to have to kill him again if he could avoid it. Not to mention that he didn’t even know where John was, and he definitely wasn’t calling him to ask.

And he didn't want to call another hunter to do it, either. Even if Meg and Tom had taken his phone from him when they'd snatched him, Dean still had all his spare phones safely stored in the Impala's glove compartment, but he didn't want to call anyone he knew. All the hunters he could think to call also knew John, and Dean feared that word might get back to his Dad about this if he called any of them, and he definitely did not want to take that risk.

So if he really didn’t want to involve his father in this, then his only other options were to stop at Bobby’s, or Jody’s, or the Roadhouse to try and figure this out, to find someone else to kill him, and _that_ was something he definitely couldn’t do, either.

He didn’t want his family to see him like this. Bobby, Jody, Donna, Ellen, Jo, _Sam—_ he didn’t want any of the people he loved to see what he’d become.

Maybe he should just try to find some random hunter to do the job, honestly—someone who didn't know who he and his Dad were, who would simply kill him without asking questions or making a phone call. All he would have to do would be find a hunt and hope that someone might be working it. No hunter would be opposed to ending a creature like him, anyway, and with a quick swing of a machete, this nightmare would finally be over—easy like that.

Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

***~*~*~*~***

The first hunt Dean found was a run-of-the-mill salt-and-burn—textbook stuff, really, nothing too complicated about it. Two kids had gone missing inside an old abandoned house in Iowa because for some reason, they’d thought that they could suddenly become ghost hunters and ‘vlog’ the whole thing (seriously, what the fuck was wrong with kids these days?), only to be brutally murdered by the ghost of the deceased owner of the place. Dean easily figured out who the ghost was, burned the remains, stuck around for a couple of days to make sure that the case was really solved, and that was it.

And he had to admit it—it felt pretty good. Working a job, going through the motions, doing the thing he’d pretty much spent his entire life doing felt… soothing. Talking to the witnesses, visiting the supposedly haunted house, going through the records to figure out who exactly the ghost was and where he’d been buried—it all felt weirdly comforting. For just a couple of days, Dean felt _normal_ again.

But on the other hand, he also felt very disappointed, because he didn’t run into another hunter while working that job, which had been the point of him going hunting in the first place. But he refused to give up. All that blood he'd drunk back in Kansas wouldn't last forever. That emptiness, that  _hunger_ inside of him seemed to grow more painful with every day that passed, and he knew he was already running out of time again. He could already feel his self-control wavering, could feel it slowly slipping between his fingers just like it had already done twice now, so he knew he had to find a hunter to finish him, and he had to do it fast—freaking _yesterday,_ really.

So he tried to find another case. The ghost one hadn’t worked out the way he’d planned, so he would just have to keep looking for more jobs until at some point he finally came across another hunter. That was bound to happen eventually. He would just have to keep trying, however many times it took him to find a hunter to kill him.

And ironically enough, the next job he came across was a vampire case—bodies found drained of blood and with their throats ripped out, blood bags stolen from the local hospitals, plus a couple of people missing. Another textbook hunt, it seemed.

In hindsight, though, maybe he shouldn’t have picked that one. A vampire case normally meant that a couple of things were bound to happen—people bleeding and blood bags being stored wherever the nest was holed up, and those were precisely the two things Dean definitely shouldn’t be around at the moment.

So unlike the ghost hunt, Dean didn’t exactly feel... _normal_ while working that case.

Going down to the morgue to see the bodies had been a true nightmare. The entire fucking hospital smelled of blood, the scent so strong and heavy in the air that Dean was barely even able to pay attention to anything anyone said to him while he was there. He couldn’t even recall whom exactly he’d talked to, either, and he’d left in a hurry, before he did something he would regret, hands shaking and heart beating wildly inside his chest as he'd stumbled his way out the door and over to his car.

And while he’d sat inside the Impala, staring up at the imposing construction that housed the hospital he’d just run out of as he pulled several big breaths of blessedly fresh air into his lungs and let them out slowly, feeling his head gradually clear up, Dean wondered if he really shouldn’t just call another hunter to come take this job and end him while they were at it. That would be a whole lot easier than trying to finish this case on his own, and it would solve both of his problems. However, all it took was the memory of John's face slipping back into his mind, so full of sadness and pain, staring down at his son as he fought with himself inside his own head, as he tried to make himself pull that trigger, for Dean to drop that idea again.

So in the end, he'd decided to continue working the vampire case on his own, simply hoping that another hunter would end up hearing about that job and strolling into town before Dean was done with it.

But because Dean’s luck had apparently completely run out the moment Meg had grabbed him back in Superior, that didn’t happen, and when Dean finally managed to figure out where the vampires were hiding—in a big, empty warehouse just a few miles outside of town—he went in alone.

Not everything was frustration and disappointment, though. The place reeked of blood, but apparently, whatever hunter instincts still remained in him were stronger than his new bloodlust, because his mind was oddly clear once he actually entered the warehouse and started swinging his machete at every vampire that came at him.

And killing the vampires was _a lot_ easier than Dean was used to.

He learned quickly that he was actually a lot faster _and_ stronger than them, just like Meg had bragged about. The vampires had laid punches and tried to throw him across the room, but Dean had easily dodged most of their blows and hit them back twice as hard, until finally, there were only two vampires left alive—the leader and his mate. Luther and Kate, Dean thought were their names.

Kate had a big gash on her forehead, and she was currently getting back to her feet after the hunter had thrown her across the room, all the while glaring up at Dean, who was standing several feet away from her, his machete gripped tightly in his hand. Luther had a broken nose, a thin trail of blood sliding out from it and down his face until it reached his chin, and he, too, was glaring daggers at the hunter, like he hoped he could somehow kill Dean with that look alone.

Dean barely had any wounds on him, nothing more than a few harmless scratches that seemed to already be healing. He tried not to think too much about that. Now really wasn't the time.

“What the hell are you?” Luther asked, a heavy frown in his brows. Dean could see the distrust in the vampire’s eyes clearly, even from across the room. “You smell like a vampire, but that doesn’t seem right. You’re something else, something… odd.”

Dean shrugged. “That really what you're worried about right now, pal?” he questioned, lifting his machete a bit higher in the air.

“What’s wrong with you? And why the hell are you here?” Kate asked, stepping forward so that she could come to stand beside her mate. “Whatever you are, don’t you have anything better to do than playing hunter?”

Dean smirked at her. “Oh, sweetheart, nothing brings me more joy than killing sick, disgusting bloodsuckers like you.”

Kate’s lips curled into a silent snarl, and a flame of anger sparked to life in her eyes. “Keep smirking, _darling_. It’ll make it all the more satisfying when I peel the skin off your fucking face.”

Dean had no chance to reply to that, because suddenly Kate was crossing the distance between them in a flash, clearly ready to pounce. The hunter lifted his weapon, swinging his arm and letting the machete cut through the air, aiming for the vampire’s neck, but Kate ducked just in time and delivered a punch right to his stomach, which instantly knocked all the air right out of Dean’s lungs.

Kate tried to grab the machete from his hand, but Dean recovered quickly from her blow, twisting the weapon in his hand and, before the vampire could grab it, he buried his machete right into her stomach. Kate let out a pained howl as her legs buckled under her weight, and when Dean pulled the blade out of her body, she fell to her knees. The wound wouldn’t be enough to kill her, of course, so the hunter wasted no time, finishing her off quickly, swinging his weapon swiftly through the air and cutting off the vampire’s head in one clean sweep.

And then he was falling to the floor, his weapon flying out of his hand, and he grunted under the weight of the body that had literally just crashed right into him. One powerful punch was delivered to his face without a warning, the blow strong enough to turn Dean’s head violently to the side. Another punch came right after the first, then another, and then one more, and all Dean was able to do for a moment was just lie there as Luther continued to deliver blow after blow to the hunter's face.

That was, until Dean finally remembered that he was supposed to be the stronger of the two, so he hurried to raise a hand and grab the vampire’s wrist, and he was very pleased when he managed to hold Luther’s hand still, just a few inches away from his face. He basked in the look of surprise that took over the vampire’s face for only a second before the hunter twisted his hand, breaking the bones in the vampire’s wrist easily, and Luther let out a pained shout, his body leaning a bit to the side.

While the vampire was distracted, Dean kicked him off, inverting their positions so that he was the one hovering over his opponent. He delivered a few punches of his own to the vampire's face to keep Luther disoriented, before quickly picking up his blade, ready to end the last vampire of the nest.

Luther still wasn’t done fighting, though, and the vampire hurried to grab the machete before it could actually reach his neck, his face scrunching up with the effort, muscles tensing up instantly. The vampire’s hands shook where they were both wrapped around the machete as Dean continued to push the weapon down, making it obvious just how much strength Luther was using to try and stop the hunter's blade from moving closer to his throat.

But in the end, Luther wasn’t strong enough to fight Dean, and soon enough, the hunter won the battle, and the last vampire of the nest had its head separated from its body.

Dean let out a heavy breath when it all was over, moving off of Luther’s now headless body and lifting himself up to his feet, before glancing around the room for a moment, letting a small smile touch his lips. He actually loved this feeling—the one that normally filled him whenever he finished working a hunt, whenever the monster was dealt with and everyone was safe again.

He actually stayed like that for a few seconds, just standing there, gripping his bloody machete tightly in his fist and basking in the fact that he’d actually handled an entire nest of vampires on his own—and with ease, too—until something else suddenly caught his attention. Again, the whole place reeked of blood, so much that the air inside the warehouse was actually heavy with it, so much that Dean had been able to smell it from _outside,_ but he’d been so focused on the hunt that he had somehow managed to ignore it up until that moment, that he’d managed to pretend it wasn’t there.

But now all the vampires were dead, and the hunt was done. He had nothing else to worry about now, nothing else to distract his mind from that smell.

His nostrils flared, his breathing quickening slightly, and his pulse felt far too strong and insistent all of a sudden, like his heart had somehow climbed up his throat, begging to be noticed. A wave of nausea poured into his belly and Dean closed his eyes, breathing solely through his mouth, though that did very little to help. He'd already breathed it in. The damage had already been done.

The smell was calling to him. He could _feel_ it calling to him, whispering his name, tugging him gently and leading him away from that room. His feet started moving on their own accord, as though they had a mind of their own, and Dean found he couldn’t stop them. The scent became stronger as he walked, and Dean followed it mindlessly, stepping through a door at the back of the main room of the warehouse and down a hallway without a single thought, coming to stop in front of a door that, in that moment, seemed to be the only barrier standing between him and the source of that marvelous, alluring smell.

With an unsteady, shaking hand, Dean gripped the doorknob and turned it, opening the door, and he was instantly hit by a _wall_ of that scent—fresh and strong and overwhelming, making the beast inside of him howl in greed and hunger.

Until a scared little whine reached his ears.

The sound brought the hunter a tiny sliver of clarity, and he used it to walk inside that room slowly, calmly, carefully eyeing everything around him and blinking a few times, as if that would help clear his head some more. He noticed what appeared to be a fridge in the corner of the small, dimly-lit room (like the ones you’d see at stores), and a woman in the other—probably one of the two who’d been missing. She was all dirty and apparently had her hands tied up behind her back, a cloth wrapped around her head and tied over her mouth, her eyes wide and scared as she stared at Dean from across the room.

The hunter swallowed drily at the sight of her, forcing himself to stay still, standing completely frozen just a couple of steps inside the room.

_The hunt’s not over yet,_ he told himself, battling fiercely for control over his own mind and body, struggling to keep the angry, snarling beast inside of him at bay. _There’s still work to be done here._

Those words were enough to clear his head just a little more, which was a true miracle, considering that inside that room, the smell of blood was so strong that it seemed to be the only thing Dean pulled into his lungs when he breathed.

Once again breathing solely through his mouth, Dean gritted his teeth together, before he finally allowed himself to start walking toward the woman, moving slowly and being careful not to spook her.

“Hey,” Dean whispered as he took a few tentative steps toward her. The woman flinched, whining again and pretty much attempting to curl up into a ball, as if she could somehow make herself disappear from sight by doing it. Something very close to a sob sounded from behind that dirty cloth, though it came out low and muffled. Despite her frightened reaction, though, Dean continued to walk toward her. “Shhhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. Calm down. I’ll get you out of here, okay? You’re safe now. You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

The woman flinched again when Dean reached her, trying to make herself seem even smaller when the hunter kneeled in front of her. Dean glanced down at the bloody machete he was still holding in his hand, deciding that probably wasn’t helping. He set the weapon down on the floor a few feet away from her, before raising both of his hands in front of his body, hoping that would be enough to show her that he meant her no harm, and that she could trust him.

“It’s okay,” he whispered again, keeping his hands raised harmlessly in the space between them. “I’ll need to get closer to you to get rid of those ropes and that cloth, but I promise that I won’t hurt you.”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face away from Dean, as if she expected him to kill her at any second now, but didn’t want to see it coming.

It truly broke Dean’s heart.

“Hey,” he tried again, his voice still nothing more than a gentle murmur. “Hey, look at me.”

She didn’t move a muscle.

“Just look at me. I promise you—I won’t hurt you.”

The woman still hesitated for a brief moment, but eventually, she finally turned her head back around and focused her scared, glistening eyes on Dean.

“I’m not a monster like them,” Dean said calmly, softly, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn't startle her in any way. She was already spooked enough as it was. 

Of course, he knew those words were not true at all, but he figured there was no harm in lying to her about that, since he was here to _save_ her. She didn't need to know the truth. She _definitely_ wouldn't trust him if she did.

“I’m here to rescue you," he added. "I’m here to _save_ you. You don’t need to be afraid of me. Now, may I free you from those ropes and that cloth? That's all I'll do. I promise.”

The woman still considered him for a moment, but much to his relief, she did relent in the end. She gave Dean a sharp, shaky nod, but made no sound, looking down at the floor.

Now that he had her permission, the hunter lifted his hands even more, slowly allowing them to move forward and toward the frightened woman, though he paused when she winced slightly—more subtly than before, like she hadn’t meant to do it. “I’m gonna get that cloth off of your mouth first,” he told her. “Is that okay?”

The woman looked up again, eyeing his hands with clear distrust for a couple of seconds, but soon enough she nodded again, wordlessly giving him permission to go on.

Carefully, as slowly as he possibly could, Dean allowed his hands to move forward again, reaching out toward the woman. Gently, he grabbed the cloth, undoing the knot that had been keeping it tied around the woman’s head and letting it fall to the floor once he was done.

He pulled his hands away, giving the woman a small smile, and he was relieved when that earned him a tiny, shaky smile in return.

“I’m going to untie your hands now,” he informed her, and when she nodded at him again—more firmly this time—Dean moved again, leaning forward and reaching out toward the woman's hands.

Untying the ropes that were keeping the woman's hands bound together behind her back took a little longer than ridding her of that cloth had, but soon enough she was completely free from her restraints, and she hurried to lean away from the wall, lifting her hands so that she could rub at her wounded wrists, wincing a bit as she did it. The skin there was red and angry, so it really was no surprise at all that they were causing her pain and discomfort.

And that was precisely the moment when the situation suddenly went south.

The wounds on the woman’s wrists had been covered by those ropes up until that moment, so maybe that was why the smell of blood coming from them hadn’t been so strong before—or maybe the woman had ripped open some skin as she'd flexed her wrists to assess the damage—not to mention that Dean had been so focused on not spooking her before, on keeping himself under control and not scaring her in any way, that somehow, he’d apparently managed to ignore the smell of blood before. But now, Dean was suddenly hit with the powerful, mouthwatering scent of her blood, warm and inviting and so full of _life_ as it coursed through her veins, and that was enough to awaken the beast inside of him once more.

Dean’s nostrils flared again, and suddenly his head was spinning, thoughts swirling around and making him dizzy. Everything around him went out of focus, his vision nothing more than a confusing, dizzying whirlwind of blurry shapes and colors, except for one thing—the wounds on the woman’s wrists. He examined the skin there more carefully, and his eyes were surprisingly focused considering how disoriented he felt. He found her wrists raw and wounded—bloody, really, the skin rubbed off in some places—and his mouth watered at the sight, his heart speeding up inside his chest. The sound of it ringing loudly in his ears only made him even more disoriented than he already was, especially when he realized that he could also hear the woman's heartbeat, loud and strong as her heart worked constantly to keep her blood flowing steadily through her veins.

He couldn’t focus on anything else. All he could see was that blood—warm and fresh, a beautiful shade of red, dark and thick and _delicious,_ and it was _right there._ The skin of the woman’s wrist was pale and so thin, like tissue paper, and Dean knew he could pierce it without effort, as easily as cutting butter with a hot knife. All he needed to do was—

Dean forced himself to rise to his feet, the movement quick and abrupt, and the woman jumped in surprise, startled. Closing his eyes and forcing himself to keep breathing through his mouth, Dean stumbled away from her, unsteadily stepping toward the door, but the beast inside of him had gone without blood for six days now, and it wasn’t going to be quiet about it anymore, not when there was a perfectly healthy donor right in front of him.

_No._

“Get out of here,” Dean ordered, and his voice came out sharp and strained, the words pushed through his gritted teeth, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about not startling the woman any more than he already had. There was no point to that now.

He stumbled toward the door, but he only managed to get as far as the wall right beside it, so he just closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cold, firm surface of it. Somehow, he knew he wouldn't be able to make himself walk out of that room, which meant that there was only one way to solve this mess, only one way to save this woman's life.

She needed to leave, to run out of that room and get as far away from Dean as she possibly could, and she needed to do it _now_.

When the woman offered him no response, Dean swallowed thickly, feeling his throat worryingly dry. His breathing was already a lot heavier than it should be, which was definitely not a good sign. He opened his eyes and forced himself to turn his head around, glancing back at the woman over his shoulder.

She was staring at him with wide, startled eyes, but when his eyes finally met hers, she frowned in confusion. Her voice was just a feeble, trembling whisper when she questioned, “What?”

“Get out.” He gestured vaguely with his hand, waving it in the general direction of the exit, before closing his eyes again and doing his best to keep breathing through his mouth, even if that task was growing to be exceptionally difficult at that point. And it did very little to help, too, but at least he hadn’t tried to rip this poor woman’s throat out with his fucking teeth yet, so it must be doing _something_. He had the smallest, weakest thread of sanity left in his mind, of _self-control,_  and he could work with that.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to hold himself back, though, so he really needed this woman to leave.

Only she didn’t seem entirely on board with that plan. When Dean opened his eyes again a moment later, glancing over at her again, he found that she was still just sitting there in the corner, simply staring at him from her spot on the floor, her eyes wide and confused.

She shook her head weakly. “I—I don’t… I don’t understand,” she breathed out. She was staring up at him with those huge, pleading doe eyes, and Dean understood why. She’d probably spent actual _days_ locked up in this room, had most likely watched the other woman who’d been taken by the vampires die, and had probably been fearing that she would be the next one to go once the monsters got hungry and finally decided to drain her dry. She was traumatized and scared, and now her supposed savior was having some sort of breakdown right in front of her, and he apparently wasn’t even going to help her leave this place and go get help.

But Dean really needed her to get the hell out of here. He could already feel his self-control wavering, fading like the small flame of a candle being blown out by a cold breeze, quickly losing its fight against the darkness that surrounded it. His hands were shaking, and he had to lean against the wall for support as his mind grew foggier by the minute. Fuck, the room was already starting to spin. Why did it have to do that?

And why wasn’t she fucking _moving?_

"What's happening?" the woman asked shakily, her voice a little louder than before, stronger. "I don't understand. Why—"

“I said get _out!”_ Dean shouted, finally losing his patience, and then he watched the woman wince in surprise for just a second before her eyes widened. The hunter felt that same prickling sensation in his eyes from the night when he’d killed that girl, the same feeling from the day he'd drunk all those blood bags back in the Men of Letters' Bunker, and an obvious flash of fear appeared in the woman’s eyes. A startled gasp jumped from her lips as shock flooded her features, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Like she was staring up at the face of a monster.

She stumbled, losing her balance, scrambling on clumsy hands and unsteady legs as she hurried to get herself up from the floor, clearly wishing to get away from Dean. She hesitated for just a moment, probably considering the fact that making a run for the door meant coming even closer to him, but in the end, she seemed to accept that was her only option, since there was only one way out of that room, and she chose to try her luck. She ran for the door, not moving her eyes away from Dean for even a single second as she did it, before vanishing from sight as soon as she left the room.

And somehow, Dean managed to stop himself from following her.

Dean let out a big, heavy breath of relief as soon as she was gone, feeling his chest several pounds lighter. The beast within him howled, shouting at him to go after her, but Dean stayed put, refusing to move even a single muscle until he was sure that he wouldn’t snap, that he wouldn’t lose control again.

But the scent of blood still hung in the air—strong and heavy, far too much so for it to simply be some sort of lingering trace, and he knew exactly why.

He glanced across the room, allowing his eyes to focus on the fridge once more. It hummed lowly, a constant buzzing that never stopped, and that had been very easily ignored by him up until that moment, considering Dean had had a lot more pressing issues to worry about before then. But even that constant noise—coming from just a few steps away from him—was not enough to drown out the sound of the woman’s hurried footsteps as she raced down the hallway and toward the main room of that warehouse. He heard it clearly when she stopped running without a warning, a gasp escaping her mouth as her steps halted abruptly—probably because she’d stumbled upon all the dead, headless vampires that Dean had left in his wake, scattered all around the place.

He could also hear her heavy breathing, even from all the way in that room. He could hear how she panted, could hear her missteps, the way she tripped and stumbled as she started running again. But what truly caught his attention was her heart—loud and panicked, pumping blood so quickly, beating so rapidly that it was a wonder how it was still working, how it hadn’t failed her yet, how it hadn't simply burst inside her chest.

Dean knew what he was feeling in that moment—he’d heard about it before, more than once. Vampires and werewolves were predators—and very dangerous ones at that—and they didn’t simply enjoy killing and feeding. No, they enjoyed the _hunt_ , chasing down their prey, watching them panic and grow tired, racing as they tried to save themselves, hanging on to a feeble thread of hope that they might escape.

His body wanted it. He _wanted_ to chase that woman, to run after her, to watch her tire herself down before he finally allowed himself to pounce on her. He wanted to hear her cry and beg for her life, pointlessly trying to push him away, to scream, to scratch at him in hopes of saving herself, of breaking free, all to no avail.

And then he’d drain her dry, drinking every single drop of her warm, delicious blood. He would—

“No!” he shouted, so loud that his throat actually hurt a bit. Without a thought, he swung his closed fist through the air, letting all his anger and frustration pour into the movement. A snarl escaped his lips as he did it, but the sound died in his throat when he felt his hand hit something, breaking part of it with the force of the blow—the wall right before him, he realized with a start.

He blinked at the sight of his fist buried into the wall, failing to process it for a moment, until he finally made himself pull his hand back. He stared at it, finding his skin unharmed, without even a single scratch on it. He flexed it a few times just to make sure it really was fine, closing his hand into a fist and opening it again a few times, testing out its movements, but he felt no pain at all, so he lifted his head to take in the sight of the hole he’d literally just _punched_ into a _freaking brick wall._

He hadn’t yet gotten used to his new strength, and it showed.

He was startled by what he’d just done, of course, but soon enough he realized that he was also kind of glad for it. His desperate, thoughtless outburst had provided his mind with a tiny bit of clarity, just enough for him to be able to fight his instincts, to move his thoughts away from the fleeing woman for just a moment, and that was all he’d needed to snap out of the trance he’d suddenly found himself in, all he’d needed to regain control over his own body and mind. He couldn’t even hear the woman anymore, couldn’t quite single out the sound of her desperate heartbeat or her uncertain, hurried steps, though he didn’t allow himself dwell on that thought for long. Instead, he chose to focus on something else, something _safer,_ before his mind wandered into very dangerous territory again.

And in that moment, there was only one thing for him to focus on in that room, only one thing to keep his mind away from that poor woman.

Without letting himself think too much about it, Dean crossed the room in three big strides, swallowing drily once he found himself standing right in front of the fridge. He lifted his hands, gripping the lid carefully in his shaky hands, before pulling the fridge open, only to be hit with the strong, alluring scent of human blood once again—not fresh and warm like the woman’s, but human blood all the same.

Just as he’d suspected, the fridge was filled with blood bags, all piled up on top of each other inside that fridge, which explained all the blood that had gone missing from the local hospitals throughout the past couple of weeks. The vampires had probably been keeping that fridge stocked so that they wouldn’t call too much attention to themselves by snatching too many humans and bringing them here, which was a smart move, but clearly not enough to keep all the hunters away.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he just stood there, simply staring down at what he could only guess were several dozen blood bags. For quite some time—minutes, probably—he wasn’t even able to get himself to move. All he managed to do was tighten his grip around the edge of the fridge, allowing his hands to curl around the metal, as if feeling the need to steady himself, to feel something solid and real against his palms, something he could focus on, something he could use to keep himself grounded, like an anchor precariously tethering him to reality. His breathing grew heavier again—more gradually this time, so much it took him a while to notice it—and at some point, when his body finally seemed to realize that he had no intention of moving anytime soon, his heartbeat became worryingly fast and his mouth and throat grew dry again—painfully so. He could feel that emptiness inside of him again, that painful hunger threatening to swallow him whole. The angry, ravenous beast inside of him was howling in his head, every single instinct, every single cell in his body screaming, begging him to give it what it truly needed, and in that moment, Dean couldn’t quite make himself fight any of it.

What was the point of resisting, anyway? He _needed_ this; there was no denying that anymore. There was no point in _fighting_ it any longer. If he did, if he allowed himself to walk out of this place like this, starving and on the brink of another breakdown, he knew he wouldn’t last long. It certainly wouldn’t take long for him to lose control again, and this time, he knew he would end up hurting someone. He could already feel his self-control slowly crumbling to dust, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he did something else he would regret. Castiel’s words about going rabid with bloodlust, about completely losing control if he didn’t feed regularly, echoed inside Dean’s head almost constantly at this point.

It would make sense for him drink some of that blood, maybe even take a few of those bags with him, as much as he hated the single thought of it, as much as the notion made his skin crawl. He was disgusted with himself for just _thinking_ about it, for just _considering_ it, but he knew that was his only option if he really didn’t want to hurt someone again.

And no one would miss those blood bags, anyway. All the vampires from the nest were dead, so there was no one here to claim them, not to mention that while those bags had been stolen from several hospitals and the police were still looking for them, were still trying to solve what they claimed was a very bizarre crime, no one would find them here, or at least not anytime soon. And even if they did, he doubted the hospitals would actually use those bags. They would probably just throw them away if they ever got them back.

And Dean hadn’t actually stolen the bags himself. He would just be… taking them from the nest of vampires that had actually stolen them in the first place, that were actually _guilty_ here, and that wasn’t so bad, right?

He reached into the fridge without thinking too much about it, before he had a chance to change his mind about this, and then he was grasping one of the bags in his hand and bringing it up to have a closer look, the plastic body of it cold against his skin. O negative, the label on the front of it said—although he wasn’t sure if the type of blood actually made a difference, if the different types actually had different tastes. He wasn’t sure. If they did, he hadn’t been able to tell so far.

He ripped the top of the bag easily, just like he’d done with the ones he’d drunk back in the Men of Letters' Bunker, and then he was pressing the bag to his mouth and drinking, sucking at it and gulping down mouthful after mouthful of blood. His breath hitched and his heartbeat spiked again, but for an entirely different reason this time. He drained three of the bags dry, letting each of them fall to the floor by his feet once it was empty, before he moved on to the next one.

And just like that, the curtain was lifted, the fog in his mind dissipating completely, no trace of it left behind. Suddenly, he felt in control once again, grounded in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible just a few moments ago. His hands were no longer shaking, he was no longer dizzy or nauseous, his heart had slowed down, and while his breathing was still a bit heavier than normal, he could tell it was slowing down as well. All of a sudden, he was _fine_.

He hated how good that blood made him feel. He hated how _clear_ his mind was now. He _hated_ it, all of it, but again, he hadn’t exactly had a choice here.

At that thought, he glanced down at the rest of the bags, remembering the train of thought that had crossed his mind just a few minutes prior.

“Fuck.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head and bringing a hand up to rub at his beard and eyes, feeling a wave of disgust flooding his body. But as unhappy as he was about this, he knew he should consider it, that he should really think about taking some of those blood bags with him. The blood would help keep him under control, would satiate the beast within him and stop it from hurting anyone. And anyway, the bags were _right there,_ right in front of him _._ All he needed to do was take them and _leave._

Before he could think too much about it, before he could second-guess his decision and change his mind, Dean glanced around the small room, searching for something, and he was very pleased when he found a cooler resting on the floor right beside the fridge, which he could stuff some blood bags into. That was probably what it was for, anyway—that cooler was probably how the vampires had transported the blood around, including on the trip from the hospitals to this place.

Quickly, with fast, rushed movements, Dean walked over to where the cooler was and picked it up, then shoved as many bags into it as he could possibly fit in there. And once that was done, he left the warehouse without looking back, hurriedly making his way to the exit, not sparing all the dead vampires even a second glance as he walked past them.

Outside, the running woman was nowhere to be found, and much to his relief, Dean felt no impulse to try and find her.

***~*~*~*~***

“You want another one?”

Dean’s head snapped up at the sound of a vaguely familiar male voice, only to find the bartender staring at him, a clear question in the man's dark brown eyes. When the hunter didn’t immediately answer, the man gestured at the empty beer bottle currently grasped in Dean’s hand with a quick wave of his wrist, but Dean still blinked dumbly at him for a couple of seconds before it finally registered in his mind what exactly the man was talking about.

Right.

“No,” Dean shook his head, pushing the bottle forward, causing it to drag against the wooden countertop, producing a dry, raspy sound. “Give me something stronger. _A lot_ stronger, preferably.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but there was a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How strong are we talkin’?”

Dean swallowed drily, then shrugged. “Surprise me.”

The man considered Dean for a beat, before finally giving him a small, sharp nod in response. He turned around so that he was facing the shelves behind him, all filled with bottles of several different drinks, and he was quick to choose one and reach for it, one half-filled with an amber liquid—whiskey, Dean assumed. The bartender poured a few fingers of the liquid into a shot glass, then pushed the drink toward the hunter over the counter.

Dean picked up the glass and took a careful sip from it, pursing his lips as he felt the alcohol burn on the way down, the sensation pleasant and familiar, even though he knew it wouldn’t do much. It would probably take that whole freaking bottle to get him drunk now—maybe even more than that, really—but it still felt nice.

He nodded at the bartender in thanks, wordlessly conveying his approval, and the man nodded at him once before walking away, leaving he hunter alone with his thoughts once more.

Dean had gotten to Lebanon, Kansas just a little over an hour ago, though it had taken him quite a while to actually _get_ here after the vampire case. He’d postponed it for as long as he could, actually, and instead of coming here straight away, he’d driven aimlessly for a while, getting lost in the open road, without a specific destination in mind. He’d stopped in a few random towns, hit a few bars and diners, sulked in his motel room, watched bad daytime TV and steadily worked his way through the blood bags he’d taken from the vampire nest back in Ohio.

And that last one was precisely one of the causes of all the self-loathing currently simmering underneath his skin, but he just couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop. His mind was so clear now, so sharp because of all the blood he’d been drinking, because he was no longer _starving_ himself. It wouldn’t be safe for him to let himself go hungry again. He would only be putting innocent lives in danger if he stopped drinking that blood, and he would be a damn awful hunter if he let that happen.

And he had to admit it—it was quite a relief to be free from that insistent, lingering nausea, from all that pain, from that feeling of constantly being on edge, ready to snap and bite someone’s head off at any second. He felt… _fine._  His body was no longer rebelling against him, and he didn’t want that to change, no matter how much he hated the means through which he’d accomplished that.

But all of that didn’t exactly erase the fact that Dean had been drinking _human blood_ for the past three days.

Dean couldn't help but wince when that thought crossed his mind. He bowed his head, ashamed, as if somehow, everyone around him knew what he was, what he’d been doing, and he just couldn’t bear to look at any of them in the eye.

There was constant chatter all around him, the main room of the bar filled with the several patrons' voices—talking loudly and in contained murmurs, words sharp and light, joking and serious—it varied from booth to booth, from table to table, but Dean could hear it all. He could single out every single voice in that place if he concentrated enough, could hear every single word that was being said anywhere in that bar, no matter how low, no matter if it was spoken in a hushed whisper across the room, which was pretty damn freaky if you asked him.

All those sounds didn't bother him all that much, though. A week ago, simply being there in that bar would have been overwhelming, would have been too much for him, but apparently, he was already getting used to his new sharp, heightened senses, because all that noise didn't seem too loud for his overly sensitive ears now.

He chose not to think too much about that.

Dean knew he shouldn’t be here. He knew he shouldn’t have come back to this town. He knew that he should keep going and find another case, that he couldn’t just give up, that he still had to die, and _soon_. Changing his mind about what he had to do wasn’t even an option to him at this point.

But then why was he still here? It would be so _easy_ , to just… call up a hunter and ask them to come kill him, and he knew they would come. He could think of so many hunters that would come running as soon as he called and told them the truth, so why hadn’t he done that yet? Because he didn't want to face his Dad? Why was he sitting here, drinking fucking whiskey at a bar like there was nothing wrong in the fucking world? Why had he come back to this town in the first place? It was almost like, subconsciously, he was working all these hunts to… postpone the inevitable, to ruin his own plan, like he didn’t truly _want_ it to succeed, like he didn’t actually _want_ to die just yet, like he wasn't as sure about it as he’d originally thought.

And he had no idea what to make of those thoughts. He had no idea what to make of _anything_ anymore, really.

Truth be told, those two hunts hadn’t exactly gone as Dean had planned, and not only because he hadn’t actually run into any hunters during either of them.

He honestly hadn’t expected to feel so… _good_ after those hunts. Sure, he’d always considered himself to be a pretty damn decent hunter, but now things were… different.

The first time John had taken Dean on a hunt, he’d been 16 years old. It had been a ghost hunt, just an easy, simple salt-and-burn, but Dean had been scared and nervous throughout the whole thing, afraid that he might end up doing something wrong, not only because he knew that John would be very disappointed in him, but also because he was very much aware that even the smallest mistake might end up costing both of them their lives.

But fortunately, that hadn’t happened. The hunt had really turned out to be an easy one—and maybe that was why John had chosen it to be Dean’s first—and when the case had been solved and both he and his father had come out of it unharmed and well, when Dean had seen all the people they'd saved, he’d grown more confident. And the more hunts he went on, the more jobs he worked, the less afraid and uncertain he felt.

That feeling of uneasiness never went away completely, though. With nearly two whole decades of experience under his belt, Dean no longer felt nervous during a hunt, or even afraid, but the possibility of dying was always very real, and he was always overly aware of it. No matter how many years of your life you devoted to hunting, no matter how many monsters you killed, one tiny mistake could still mean the end for any hunter, and very easily, too—what had happened to Dean back in Superior was proof of that.

And that thought haunted every single hunter, during every job. They ignored it most of the time, of course, forcing themselves to think about other things, to concentrate on the job, on all the people they had to save, but that knowledge was always there, lurking in the back of their minds, constantly reminding them of just how vulnerable and weak they truly were compared to the creatures they hunted.

But now, those thoughts were gone.

Maybe the fact that Dean didn’t really care about dying anymore played a part in that, but he was certain that wasn’t all. Sure, Dean wanted to die—or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, anyway—but he didn’t want to leave a job unfinished, so he certainly didn’t plan on getting himself killed during a hunt, because that would mean dying at the hands of another monster that would be left alive and free, that would only cause even more pain and suffering, that would kill even more people, and Dean couldn’t have that. He was still a hunter, after all, and he couldn’t just allow a monster to live in order to get himself killed.

No, what had really changed here, what was really making things different, was the fact that Dean wasn’t human anymore, that he was no longer weak and vulnerable. In both hunts—the haunting  _and_ the vampire nest—Dean hadn’t exactly struggled to win the fights and overpower the monsters. It had been almost… _easy_ to fight off the ghost for long enough to burn his bones, as well as kill all those vampires all by himself. And sure, a few times, he’d forgotten how strong he truly was now, but as soon as he'd remembered that he was no longer human, the monsters hadn’t stood a chance against him.

And of course that got Dean thinking.

He could do so much like this; help so many people. He could make so much more of a difference now.

But he hadn’t even allowed himself to think about that before, because the single notion of it had seemed completely absurd to him only a few days ago. How could a monster actually hunt other monsters? That sounded completely _ridiculous,_ honestly. All his life, Dean had believed that all creatures like vampires and werewolves ever thought about was killing people, _hunting_ them for their blood and meat, because it was their _nature._ Dean had been taught as much ever since he’d been a kid, so it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that he’d automatically assumed vampire-werewolf hybrids couldn’t possibly be any different, even if Castiel had so vehemently insisted that wasn’t the case.

But now, Dean was beginning to wonder if maybe Castiel had a point. Dean had been so on edge during those hunts because he’d been starving, he understood that now, because ever since he’d started drinking from those blood bags, the urge to feed, to tear out someone’s throat, to drain every single human he came across dry, was just… gone, or at least so subtle that he could very easily ignore it. Even now, sitting in that bar, surrounded by dozens of warm, living humans, Dean didn’t feel like lashing out, like biting into the first person who wandered too close to him. He felt _fine,_ under control, and not like a mindless, rabid creature.

And he didn’t know what that _meant._ That he wasn’t a monster? _No,_ of course not—the memory of that girl back in Superior, of her empty eyes staring up at the ceiling right after Dean killed her, came back to him then, shattering that possibility immediately, tossing that thought right out the window. No, Dean was a monster; there was no denying that, no convincing him otherwise.

But what, then? What was he supposed to understand from all that?

Going out on his own and working those two hunts hadn’t helped him all that much, after all. He had so many new doubts piling up inside his head now, so many questions that he had no answers to and that he definitely _did not_ want to think about, but that he could no longer ignore. He was just so freaking confused that he didn’t even know what to _think_ anymore. He didn’t know what he _wanted_ anymore, and that frightened him more than anything else.

Maybe that’s why he’d come back to Kansas—because he needed time to sort out his thoughts and figure things out, and he would get that here. Sure, he had freaked out and bolted right after drinking a considerable portion of those hybrids' blood stash, but he hadn’t actually gotten himself killed yet, so _technically,_ he hadn’t broken the deal he’d made with Castiel, and that meant that Castiel would still have to hold _his_ end of the deal when the time came, right?

Here, Dean would have 17 more days to mull everything over, to figure out the source of all those doubts and get rid of them, to find the answers he so desperately craved, and then…

Well, then he’d make a decision, and that would be it.

The fact that he was no longer certain what that decision would turn out to be set a weight in his stomach, heavy and solid like a block of lead, but Dean did his best not to think too much about that right now. He still had time for that. Again, that's why he'd come here, after all.

He’d driven around town for quite a while after he’d arrived in Lebanon, though, and it had taken him nearly half an hour to actually come to this bar. He hadn't been sure how to proceed, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to get into the Men of Letters' Bunker on his own, so in the end, he’d decided to try his luck with this place. Balthazar and Crowley did seem like the kind of guys who would pretty much _live_ in a place like this, so the chances of Dean running into one of them here were pretty high. Sure, the _last_ thing he wanted to do was deal with those two, but he didn’t know what else he could do to find one of the hybrids or the witch. This was the only guess he had to work with here, so he would just have to make do with what he had.

And while he was here, he could shove a whole lot of alcohol down his throat to try and make this whole thing easier, so maybe it wasn’t _all_ bad.

If neither of those two showed up here, though, he would probably spend the night at a motel, then go looking for Castiel at work early tomorrow. He hadn’t seen any Gas-N-Sip’s while he’d been driving around town, but he just could look up some addresses in the morning and try his luck again.

He drank his whiskey slowly, asking for a refill once he was done with his first shot. He didn’t feel even a slight buzz, which was pretty damn annoying, but he still paced himself, still drank carefully as he mulled over his decision to come back here.

It was about half an hour—and three more whiskey shots—later when someone slipped into the seat right beside Dean, though the hunter didn’t even bother glancing their way, too lost in his own thoughts to pay a complete stranger any mind.

The bartender was quick to wander back over when that happened, probably to get the new customer’s order.

“What can I get ya?” he asked.

“One beer, please.”

Dean’s head snapped up at the sound of a much more familiar male voice—low and gravelly, almost startling so. He turned his head quickly, only to find none other than Castiel occupying the seat right beside him.

Well, that certainly hadn't been difficult at all.

Castiel didn’t immediately look at Dean. No, the blue-eyed hybrid simply looked down at the counter right in front of him as he waited for the bartender to bring him his beer, following the patterns marked in the wood with the tip of his forefinger, and when a nice, cold bottle of beer was placed right in front of him, he simply gave the bartender a quick nod in thanks, then curled a hand around the bottle and brought it up to his lips without a moment of hesitation, taking a couple of big, thirsty gulps from it.

Dean waited until Castiel had set the beer back down onto the counter to speak.

“I hoped I’d run into one of you here,” the hunter admitted, turning his head back around to look down at his own drink, brushing the tips of his fingers against the glass. “I just figured it wouldn’t be _you_. My guess was either Balthazar or Crowley—or both, really.”

“You were looking for us,” Castiel concluded, a clear hint of surprise coating his words, and from the corner of his eye, Dean saw the blue-eyed hybrid turn his head to look at him, but it was the hunter’s turn to avoid the other’s gaze this time, refusing to look up and meet Castiel’s eyes.

Dean shrugged weakly, halfheartedly. “I don't remember seeing a doorbell in that Bunker of yours, and I doubt I could find a way to get inside on my own. You said it yourself—nothing gets inside if you don’t want it in.”

There was a pause, so Dean downed the rest of his drink in one go, tipping his head backwards as he did it. He signaled to the bartended that he wanted another one, and it was only when the hunter had a refilled shot glass in his hand that he spoke again, realizing that apparently, Castiel had no intention to do so himself.

“So was this just a coincidence, or were you looking for me too?” He turned his head again, meaning for the comment to come out as a joke, or at least as a lighthearted comment, even giving Castiel a tiny, mocking smile to go with it, but his words sounded empty, almost bitter as they left his mouth, conveying no amusement whatsoever in the end.

Castiel met his eyes for only a moment—and _right,_ his eyes were _really fucking blue._ Dean had kinda forgotten about that _—_ before he glanced back down at his beer, shifting a bit in his seat. “I did look for you, after you left, but… No tracking spell would work, which was a surprise. Rowena… she’s a very talented witch, but she couldn’t figure out how you managed to hide from her. She was very unhappy about that, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so annoyed and frustrated before.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up in another small smile, this one a lot more genuine than the previous, carrying actual amusement this time, and a little bit of pride, too. Rowena might be talented, but apparently she wasn’t talented enough to get past the hex bag that John had given him over a whole decade ago. In all of his years of hunting, Dean hadn’t yet found a witch who could. That was something John Winchester pretty much excelled at—hiding from witches—and he’d made sure to teach both his sons all of his tricks. “I’m a hunter. I know how to hide from a witch,” he replied easily, choosing not to voice the actual reason behind that.

Castiel nodded slowly, accepting that explanation without question. “Something changed, though—tonight, I mean. Rowena said you were no longer cloaked, and that you were... _here_. But I didn’t believe her, of course. I couldn’t think of a single reason why you would have stayed in town.” He shrugged, glancing up at Dean once more. The tiniest hint of a smile tugged the corner of his mouth upward. “I suppose I owe her an apology.”

Again, Dean didn't bother explaining why Rowena had suddenly been able to track him. The hex bag only worked if he was carrying it with him, and he'd shoved it into the Impala's glove compartment when he'd gotten to this bar. He hadn't exactly hoped that the witch might be looking for him, but since he had no reason to worry about keeping himself cloaked from witches now, he'd decided there wouldn't be any harm in leaving the hex bag behind.

He was pretty glad for that now.

“I didn’t stay in town,” Dean said, earning himself a pair of raised, inquiring eyebrows. “I went pretty far, actually. I just… I got back a couple hours ago.”

“Why?” Castiel asked, eyes narrowing slightly, a frown quickly forming in his brows. He stared curiously at Dean, like the hunter was a puzzle he was trying very hard to solve. “Why did you come back? I mean, I didn’t… I wouldn’t have guessed you would. As a matter of fact, I thought you…”

“You thought I was already dead,” Dean guessed.

A shadow seemed to blanket itself over Castiel’s face at those words, and his eyes hardened visibly. Still, he nodded—though a bit stiffly. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it? That if you walked out that door, you wouldn’t come back. I just assumed…” For some reason, Castiel didn’t finish that. He simply shrugged and looked away, pressing his lips together, before he lifted his beer back up to his mouth and took another big sip from it.

Dean’s hand tightened a bit around his glass, though not to enough to actually break it. He had to be mindful of his own strength now, he reminded himself. “That was my plan,” he admitted, glancing down at his own drink again. “Just… find a hunter to kill me and be done with it. That’s what I wanted when I left.”

“Wanted?” Castiel questioned, an obvious hint of surprise audible in his voice once again, “You don’t want it anymore?”

Well, _that_ was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

Dean pressed his lips together, bowing his head again. He could lie—tell Castiel that no, he still wanted to die; that he was absolutely certain of it and wouldn’t change his mind about it. He could insist on the deal they’d made, ask Castiel to give his word again that once Dean’s thirty days as a hybrid were up, he would give the hunter what he wanted, that he would _kill_ Dean without question, without a fuss.

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, what came out of Dean’s mouth next was a low, murmured, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

He winced as soon as those words were out in the open, squeezing his eyes closed shut and lowering his head even more. His hand tightened around his glass once again, and in a quick, jerky movement, he lifted the glass up to his lips and tossed the drink back at once, draining all the whiskey in one go.

Castiel was silent beside him for a moment, probably because he wasn't sure what to say in response to that. Dean couldn't exactly blame the guy.

The bartender wandered over again to refill Dean's shot glass—was that the fifth or the sixth time? Dean honestly couldn't remember at this point—and it was only when the man had walked away and the two were left alone again, after that tense silence had already lingered in the air between them for at least a couple of minutes, that Castiel finally spoke again.

"Where did you go?" he asked, voice low and tentative, almost like he was convinced that he wouldn't like whatever he would hear next. "You said you went pretty far."

Dean almost, _almost_ huffed at that question, but somehow, he held himself back from actually doing it. _What did you do?_ he heard clearly, as though Castiel had actually said those words out loud,  _Did you hurt anyone? Or worse?_

Dean pressed his lips together and into a thin line, then took a careful sip from his whiskey as he tried to decide how much exactly he wanted to tell this guy.

In the end, he decided against telling Castiel the whole truth, though he knew that lying to the guy wouldn't actually do anything to help him, either.

So Dean settled for telling him  _part_ of the truth.

"I freaked out," he admitted, looking down at his glass, for some reason not quite managing to meet Castiel's eyes as he did it. "I couldn't keep the animal blood down, no matter how hard I tried, and eventually I just... snapped—though I'm pretty sure you figured that one out already, with the mess I left behind. Sorry about that, by the way."

Castiel let out a small huff, but didn't actually reply.

"I needed to clear my head, I guess," Dean added. "I was a bit of a mess—still am, really, just... a smaller one."

"You do seem better," the blue-eyed hybrid commented, a very subtle edge to his words, a hint of concern and worry disguised as innocent curiosity, but that Dean still heard very clearly. Castiel really wanted to know what exactly Dean had been up to throughout the past few days—that much was obvious. "Less on edge, more... steady. And you're apparently keeping all that alcohol down just fine, too."

Dean swallowed drily, choosing his next words carefully. He glanced around briefly to make sure no one nearby was close enough to hear anything he was about to say, before he replied, his voice low and gruff, "Yeah, well, apparently, that's what drinking human blood does to a guy."

A tense silence filled the air around the pair, and when Castiel offered no response, Dean finally forced himself to look up and meet those deep blue eyes again, only to find a curious—and mildly worried—look in them.

"I didn't kill anyone," the hunter hurried to add, "I didn't even hurt anyone, actually—or, well, not anyone human, anyway. I... I went hunting. Worked two cases: a haunting in Iowa and a vampire case in Ohio."

Castiel's eyebrows rose slightly, a hint of surprise clear in his eyes. He schooled his features quickly enough, though, before clearing his throat, and in a voice that sounded oddly calm and controlled, almost unnervingly so, he asked, "And how did that go?"

Dean shrugged. "A lot better than I thought it would, honestly. I..." He looked away from Castiel again, dragging the tips of his fingers against his whiskey glass just to have something to do as he talked. "I wanted to find a hunter. Again, that was my plan when I left—find a hunter to kill me and be done with it, and I thought the best way to do that was to look for hunts, hoping I'd run into someone. But I didn't, and I ended up just... actually working the jobs, which was... weird. But it felt good... normal, even. It was... not really what I expected."

"Because you felt like yourself again?" Castiel guessed.

Dean shook his head. "Yes and no. I mean, it was... good to do it again, you know? Hunting monsters, saving people. It's what I've done all my life, so yeah, it was nice to go back to that for a bit, but... things are different now. The hunts were almost too easy. It was kind of unsettling, really."

"Well, you _are_ considerably stronger and faster than you were before, not to mention a lot more resilient. Of course hunting would be easier for you now."

"Yeah, no, I get that," Dean huffed. "It's just... I hate that I actually liked it. I hate that, even when I'm like _this_ , it actually felt _good_."

"Well, you shouldn't."

The reply came so quickly, so easily, that Dean forced himself to raise his head and look at Castiel again, raising both of his eyebrows at the blue-eyed hybrid in a silent, wordless request for an explanation.

Castiel met his stare without blinking, without wavering. He shrugged lightly. "Regardless of who—or rather, _what_ you are now, you still saved lives, didn't you? Because of _you_ , several people are alive and well. What's so bad about that? What's so bad about feeling good about it?"

Dean had to look away again then. He swallowed drily, licking his suddenly dry lips as he searched for a retort, but he found none. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? He could argue against it, could disagree just for the sake of doing so, but the truth was that all he could really think about in that moment was the fact that the guy's words actually made _sense._

When the hunter offered no reply, Castiel added, "You may think this is a curse, Dean, but maybe it's not all bad. You could continue hunting. Nothing says you can't just because you're not human anymore. Think of all the good you could do, all the people you could save now. This doesn't have to be the end for you."

Oh, so Castiel was going to play _that_ card, then? Dean huffed at that thought, shaking his head, though perhaps he shouldn't be too surprised by it. The guy _had_ made it pretty clear when they'd first met that he didn't actually want Dean to die, and even if he'd agreed to kill the hunter when his month was up, he had made it clear—he'd literally _said_ it, actually—that he would spent those thirty days trying to convince Dean that he wasn't a monster, and that he didn't have to die.

Dean should have expected those comments from him, he really should have, but that didn't mean he wasn't annoyed by them now.

Also, he chose not to think about the fact that he had been thinking about that exact train of thought himself before Castiel had shown up here. That wasn't relevant at all right now.

The hunter downed all of his whiskey in one go again, and he didn't even glance at Castiel as he waved the bartender over one more time. The guy seemed pretty surprised by it, giving Dean a weird look when the hunter asked for another refill, probably because he didn't look or sound drunk at all, but fortunately the man did as requested and poured Dean yet another shot of whiskey before walking away again.

Dean still didn't look at Castiel as he took a careful sip from his drink, and he guessed his sudden annoyance must be pretty obvious, because Castiel grew silent beside him. Without a word, the blue-eyed hybrid simply lifted his beer up to his mouth for the first time in a while and swallowed a few small, cautious gulps from it, then set the bottle back down onto the countertop.

That tense, uncomfortable silence stretched on for a few minutes, and at some point, Dean actually started to regret coming back to this town.

Castiel spoke up before Dean could examine that thought too closely.

"You said you didn't hurt anyone," he pointed out, and his voice sounded much lower than before, more careful, like he wasn't sure if he should even be talking in the first place. He was treading carefully again, like he expected Dean to lash out at him at any second now. "But you've been feeding."

There was a question hidden amongst those words, and Dean heard it clearly, as though it had actually been spoken out loud.

"I didn't, at first," he admitted, glad for the change of subject. He even felt himself relax a little bit because of it—although only a bit. That wasn't exactly an easy topic for him to talk about, either. "Actually, until three days ago, I was pretty much starving myself, until... well, until I worked the vampire case."

"Vampires normally keep a substantial stash of blood, even the ones who actually prey on humans, so that they don't call too much attention to themselves," Castiel commented, clearly following the correct train of thought. "So you drank from their stash, then?"

"I _stole_ most of their stash, actually," Dean corrected, "But they're dead, so it's not like they care."

Castiel paused, as if to consider that new piece of information, before he finally commented on it—tentatively, of course, clearly still choosing his words carefully. "So you're okay with drinking from blood bags now?"

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. "No, I'm not fucking _okay_ with it. I just... realized I have no other choice." He shook his head, taking another sip from his whiskey. "I didn't even _want_ to do it, but once all the vamps were dealt with, there was this... this girl that they'd been keeping as a prisoner. She was hurt and bleeding a bit, and I... Fuck, I wanted to feed on her so fucking badly, and I almost did—I came really, _really_ fucking close, actually. But somehow, I snapped out of it and told her to run, and she did. I still wanted to go after her, though, and I knew I had to do something before I lost it, so..." He shrugged, not quite managing to finish that story, letting the words die on his tongue instead.

But apparently, he didn't need to actually say it.

"So you drank a few blood bags," Castiel guessed.

Dean nodded stiffly, swallowing drily. "And it all went away, like someone had flipped a freaking switch—the pain, the nausea, everything. Suddenly, I was... _fine_ , and I hated it—I still do—but at least I don't feel like biting anyone's head off anymore."

"Well, I did tell you," Castiel pointed out, "If you keep a healthy diet, if we drink human blood consistently, no matter the source, we can keep our instincts under control. We're not mindless creatures, controlled by our bloodlust. We're quite... stable, actually, a lot more than normal vampires."

Dean huffed again, but remained quiet, not finding anything to say in response to that. He figured arguing with the guy about that wouldn't exactly get him anywhere.

"I must say, though," Castiel continued when he seemed to realize that Dean didn't plan on offering a reply, "I'm actually impressed. You're doing a lot better than I expected."

Before Dean could stop it, a snort found its way out of his mouth, and he rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, I wouldn't exactly say I'm doing _well_ here, pal. Quite the contrary, actually."

"I'm serious, Dean. You do seem fine, and it appears to me that you really do have your instincts under control, which is... remarkable, to say the least, considering you were turned less than two weeks ago. Not everyone adapts so fast. You really should be proud of yourself."

Dean was about to snort and huff again, to give Castiel some kind of sharp retort, because he sure as hell wasn't fucking _adapting_ , and he definitely didn't feel fucking _proud_ of himself, but then he remembered Castiel's comment from the day they'd met, about how there was a lot more blood on his hands than on Dean's, and for some reason, the hunter grew curious.

"I'm assuming _you_ had an even harder time than I'm having, then," he probed, glancing at Castiel again to study his reaction.

Castiel's eyes seemed to grow just a tiny bit darker at the sound of those words, and he let his blue eyes fall as he looked away from Dean, glancing down at his half-drunk beer. His shoulders seemed tense under his trench coat, more stiff than normal, and he swallowed drily, thickly, before responding in a low, almost solemn tone, "I did."

He didn't elaborate, and as curious as Dean felt in that moment, as much as he wanted to hear more, he pressed his lips together and kept quiet. He could easily tell that Castiel wasn't exactly eager to share any more on that topic, and Dean respected that. It wasn't his place to demand any more from the guy, anyway, and it was no surprise that Castiel didn't feel comfortable enough to elaborate on his most likely sad, tragic backstory. They weren't _friends_. They didn't even _know_ each other, really.

So of course, Dean was pretty surprised when a few seconds later, Castiel started talking again, resuming their conversation as though the air around them hadn't suddenly turned heavy and tense, as if this whole situation wasn't incredibly awkward.

"When Meg and Tom turned me, they didn't explain anything—or at least, they didn't tell me what exactly they were doing to me. They just gave me an injection, and that was it. And as a hunter, you already had a pretty big advantage there—you already knew the world isn't exactly what most people believe it to be. You knew what kinds of creatures walk this Earth, and you knew Meg and Tom weren't human. Me, on the other hand..." He shook his head weakly, bowing it slightly as he gave a small, feeble shrug, "I wasn't so lucky."

Yeah, Dean understood why Castiel must have struggled with that. Over the years, the hunter had seen his fair share of people's reactions to learning that the supernatural was real, but there was an enormous difference between learning someone you maybe knew was a monster that ate people and finding out about the existence of monsters by _becoming_ one yourself. By already being privy of that knowledge since he'd been four years old, Dean obviously had quite an advantage over Castiel in that regard.

But that didn't mean this whole thing was easy to Dean, either.

When he seemed to realize that Dean didn't plan on adding anything, Castiel continued with his story, "After I got away, I was... disoriented and... lost. Again, I didn't know what they'd done to me exactly, but I knew that they'd given me some kind of injection, so I was hoping that whatever they'd given me would wear off eventually. I waited, and waited, and _hoped_ , but... well, obviously that didn't happen."

Dean almost, _almost_ allowed a tiny scoff to jump from his mouth, but then he thought better of it and remained quiet.

"But of course, the more I waited, the hungrier I got." Castiel's voice seemed to grow even lower then, almost somber, a shadow casting over his features as he bowed his head forward a little more, as if trying to hide his face.

"You said there was a lot more blood on your hands than there was on mine," Dean commented, "So that's what you were talking about, then?"

Castiel gave a slow, careful nod in response. "If keeping yourself under control when you actually _know_ what your body wants, when you understand the instincts you're feeling, the _urges_ , is already considerably difficult for a newly-turned, then doing it without having a single clue what's wrong with you is very nearly impossible."

Without a thought, Dean blurted out, "So you killed a lot of people, I'm assuming." He glanced around as soon as those words were out of his mouth, worried that he might have said them just a tiny bit too loud and that someone might have overheard that mildly unsettling comment, but fortunately, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them—no confused, startled or curious glances were being thrown their way, so Dean assumed they were fine.

Castiel seemed rather unfazed and unworried about that, though. He didn't even look up as he gave another slow, careful nod. "More people than I can remember, if I'm being honest. A lot of it—of my first few weeks like this—is really just a blur."

Dean's immediate reaction to Castiel's admission was... odd, to say the least—unexpected, even. Normally, whenever a monster openly  _admitted_ to killing people, what Dean would normally feel sparking to life inside of him was a mixture of anger and disgust, as well as the desire to erase said creature from this Earth, to rid this world of such a horrible monster.

But in that moment, for some reason, Dean didn't feel any of that.

Perhaps it was because he and Castiel were pretty much on the same boat now, so Dean could relate. Sure, the hunter still very much _hated_ himself for killing that girl back in Nebraska—sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see her emotionless face; her empty, lifeless eyes staring up blankly at the ceiling—but he could sympathize with Castiel a bit; he had to admit it. He knew what it was like to completely lose control of himself now. He knew how hard it was to fight the monster inside of him, to keep the beast at bay. He knew what it felt like to pushed to the backseat and not be able to do anything about it.

And he could see the regret in Castiel's face. He could see it in the way the blue-eyed hybrid's shoulders slumped a bit at his sides, as though bearing the weight of all the lives he'd taken. He could hear it in Castiel's voice, in the dark, heavy tone he used, his words carrying an obvious hint of remorse and guilt.

Dean actually felt bad for the guy, honestly.

And he had questions, too—a lot of them, actually. His curiosity had grown inside of him at some point, and it was pretty difficult to ignore it now. For some reason, he wanted to ask for more, to inquire about how exactly Castiel had gotten to where he was now, how he'd figured out what Meg and Tom had done to him, how he'd adapted and _coped_ with everything. But instead of voicing any of those doubts, Dean pressed his lips together tightly, keeping his mouth closed shut before any of those questions could sneak past his lips, because he knew he had no right to ask them.

For the hundredth time—Dean didn't _know_ the guy, for fuck's sake. At this point, the hunter was already growing concerned with how many times he'd had to remind himself of that already.

"But now you're here," Dean commented instead, steering the conversation into what the hunter hoped was much safer, easier territory, "Going after Meg, trying to get revenge for what she did to you."

Castiel still wasn't looking at Dean. He had his lips pressed together for some reason, and his expression still seemed a bit dark, his shoulders still tense. If possible, his voice sounded even lower than before when he said, "My life wasn't the only thing Meg took from me."

There was an untold story hidden behind those words—one of the various pieces of a puzzle Dean was convinced he'd never be able to piece together. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to, why he felt so curious.

He shook his head weakly, hoping to clear his head, to push all those untimely thoughts away. "Well, I still got seventeen more days on this Earth, so maybe I can help you get your revenge." And also get some revenge of his own in the process, Dean thought. "You have any clue where Meg might have gone off to after she bolted? Or where she might be headed next, maybe?"

Castiel finally lifted his head, turning it so that he could fix the hunter with an unnerving, intense stare. There was an odd look in his eyes then—something heavy and loaded that Dean had no idea how to read.

"No," Castiel replied, shaking his head weakly. "I've been tracking her for two years, but I haven't been able to figure out any sort of... pattern to where she goes, or why. The towns she chooses seem random, sometimes states apart, sometimes only a few miles away from each other. I don't have a clue where she might be right now, or where she's going next."

"Then how the hell do you track her?" Dean asked.

"With Rowena's help, mostly. Again, she's a very gifted witch. Usually she can find Meg pretty quickly, once she settles into a town and starts taking people. But until Meg actually does something to catch Rowena's attention, I have no way of finding her."

Huh. Well, that complicated things.

"Well, aren't there others that can get you to her? Other hybrids?" the hunter questioned. "Like, whoever Meg answers to. What was the name she mentioned? Lilith, I think. You ever try tracking _her_ down, whoever she is?"

Something weird happened then. As soon as he heard those words, Castiel's entire expression changed, confusion and surprise quickly taking over his features. His eyes widened, and his voice came out a bit breathy as he let out a quiet, "What?"

Dean frowned at that reaction, finding it pretty odd and feeling completely lost on what to make of it. "Uh... what?"

Castiel's voice sounded even more urgent when he asked, "What did you just say?"

Dean still wasn't sure why Castiel looked so spooked, but he still replied, "That maybe you should try to look for other hybrids? And that maybe _they_ could lead you to Meg?"

"No," Castiel shook his head almost frantically, his eyes even wider than before— _pleading_ , even. Dean was very confused. "About Meg answering to someone, and the... that _name_. Where did you hear all that?"

"Meg told me," Dean replied easily, a frown still very much present in his brows. "Well, more like, she made a whole speech about it before she turned me—classic villain monologue style, you know? She really seems to like the sound of her own voice." He took in the sight of Castiel's big, round blue eyes, the way he seemed almost... startled, or shocked, and that was when it dawned on Dean. "Wait, you didn't know any of this?"

Castiel shook his head again, the movement quick and jerky. Dean could almost see the cogwheels turning behind his eyes. "Meg's following orders," he whispered, like he'd just had the biggest epiphany of his freaking life.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, nodding lightly, "Tom kept reminding Meg that 'she knew what their orders' were, and that this... Lilith or whatever wouldn't be happy that she'd turned a hunter. He seemed pretty worried about it, actually."

Castiel's hands had moved to grip the counter in front of him, as though he needed the support to keep himself steady. His eyes were still wide as he abruptly jumped to his feet, almost knocking over the stool he'd been sitting on in the process. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, fumbling with it for a moment before he finally managed to fish out a few crumpled bills from it, tossing them onto the counter.

Dean's eyebrows rose at the sight of it, because _wow_ , that was a pretty generous tip, and the guy hadn't even finished his beer.

"We need to go," Castiel announced.

Dean wasn't sure why the guy suddenly looked so spooked, but he wasted no time before standing up as well and tossing some of his own money onto the counter, enough to pay for his own drinks. Castiel started walking away before Dean even had the chance to stuff his wallet back into his pants pocket, his steps quick and rushed as he started making his way toward the exit. Dean hurried to follow him.

"Whoa, dude, slow down!" the hunter said when he finally caught up to blue-eyed hybrid, just as they reached the door that led outside. "Where are we going?"

Castiel paused for just a moment, his hand gripping the door handle a bit too tightly. He turned his head to look at Dean, and his eyes were still wide, though there was something else in them now—something intense and urgent, almost desperate. Dean wasn't sure what to make of it.

“I need to talk to Rowena.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone curious about Cas' backstory? ;)
> 
> Also, you guys might want to pay attention to the years mentioned in each chapter. We'll be seeing a lot of flashbacks in this story. ;) ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the kudos and comments! You guys are the best.<33 :)
> 
> Just a little heads-up: I'm not a doctor, so all the medical information presented in this chapter is the result of a few Google searches. If anyone reading this has a good understanding of medicine, I apologize if there's anything too absurd here.
> 
> Warning: This chapter is pretty heavy. It contains graphic violence, a few minor character deaths, and whole lot of sadness and grief, though nothing beyond _Supernatural_ and _The Vampire Diaries_ levels. If you want more information on those warnings **(with spoilers!)** , please check the end notes.

***~*~*~*~***

**2011**

***~*~*~*~***

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Castiel didn’t look up at the sound of those words. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly focused on the small pile of papers currently resting on the desk right in front of him, examining every single word that was written on them very thoroughly—a bit more than was truly necessary; he had to admit it. The file he was looking over belonged to a young man with nothing more serious than a broken forefinger, and Castiel had already read over every single piece of information that there was for him to read about this particular patient’s test results. Castiel already knew exactly what needed to be done, what kind of medicine he would need to prescribe the patient for the pain, what kind of treatment the young man would need to receive here at the hospital and what precautions he would need to take after he left.

And yet, Castiel didn’t allow himself to look up from those papers, because the alternative would be for him to raise his head and look at his co-worker, who had simply sauntered into his office to corner him, most likely to try to get him to talk about his feelings.

And he did not feel particularly inclined to do that now.

“I feel hesitant to ask this,” he replied slowly, trying to both look _and_ sound busy, absentminded, like he wasn’t completely paying attention to what he was saying, although he knew from the very start—since the moment the very first word slipped out of his mouth—that was a pretty pointless effort. He already knew that wouldn’t truly help him in the end. If anything, it might only make things even worse. “But what exactly are you talking about?”

Hannah huffed from her spot by the door. “Are you really going to make me say it?” she asked, sounding annoyed. Castiel was pretty sure she must have rolled her eyes at him, too, even though he didn’t actually see it.

His next words came surprisingly easy.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

That was a lie, of course. Castiel knew exactly why she was here, what she wanted to speak with him about—what she wanted _him_ to open up about.

But he had absolutely no desire to do that.

Hannah sighed loudly, crossing the room in a few careful, slow steps so she could take a seat on the chair placed right in front of his desk, but she didn’t immediately say anything after she sat down, probably because she was still waiting for Castiel to start talking, still hoping that _he_ would be the one to start this absolutely _dreadful_ conversation.

As if _that_ was going to happen.

However, even if Hannah surely knew how unlikely that was—there was _no way_ she didn’t—she still remained sitting in that chair, quiet and unmoving, patiently waiting for something to happen, because she was stubborn like that.

In the heavy, tense silence that followed, Castiel finally allowed his eyes to move away from the patient’s file, though he didn’t look directly at Hannah just yet. No, he simply watched her from the corner of his eye as he turned his head to the side, focusing his gaze on the coffee cup currently resting on the desk just a few inches away from his right hand—his fifth one today, if he remembered correctly—before reaching out for the drink, carefully wrapping his hand around the cup and lifting it from the desk.

Hannah’s hand shot out quickly, pretty much ripping the cup from the man’s grasp before he could actually bring it up to his mouth and take a sip from it.

Castiel huffed, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, lifting a hand to rub at his growing beard. He’d been meaning to shave for a few days now, but he hadn’t yet gotten around to it. Maybe tomorrow morning, he thought.

“Castiel.”

Castiel closed his eyes as he pulled in a deep, heavy breath, then let it out slowly, trying to find the strength within him to deal with whatever Hannah had in store for him now.

He didn’t succeed, but he had no other choice but to look up at his friend regardless.

Hannah’s blue eyes were worried—heavy and intense, staring at Castiel like he was a scared little animal ready to just take off running in fright if she moved too abruptly, if she made the wrong move and startled him somehow.

She was a good friend; Castiel couldn’t deny that. She had never, in all of the years Castiel had known her, let him down before.

But right now, talking to her was truly the last thing Castiel wanted to do.

Why couldn’t everyone just leave him be? Why was everyone so freaking _worried_ about him? Didn’t they understand that he just wanted to be left alone?

“Hannah, I really don’t want to do this right now,” he pleaded, shaking his head at his friend, hoping that she would take pity on him and just give up, that she would give him at least another day to wallow in his sorrows and try to sort through the mess in his head, to try to pull himself together somehow.

But of course that didn’t happen.

“How’s Claire?” Hannah asked, completely ignoring his request. She was obviously trying to be subtle with her probing, asking what to anyone else might seem like a completely innocent, harmless question, but Castiel immediately saw her query exactly for what it truly was—a gentle, careful nudge in the right direction that he knew his friend hoped would somehow be enough to get him to open up and tell her what was wrong.

Castiel sighed again, feeling his shoulders slump in defeat at his sides. He really didn’t want to talk to anyone about this, but he knew just how exceptionally stubborn Hannah could be when she wanted something—or when she wanted to _accomplish_ something—so he knew she wouldn’t give up until he actually relented, until he at least gave her _something_ to work with.

“Claire is being… difficult,” he admitted slowly, fiddling with the corner of the patient’s file, grasping it between two of his fingers and nearly folding it, though not enough to actually mark the paper. “But that’s to be expected. I’m… I’m trying to give her some space.”

Space. That’s what his therapist kept insisting Claire needed right now, although Castiel wasn’t sure if that was actually helping with anything. He honestly had no idea, but then again, he didn’t know what else he could do.

Claire was just lashing out, and Castiel knew she had every right to. She’d lost both of her parents just a little over a month ago, and her wounds were still fresh and bleeding, still open and exposed for the whole world to see.

The night it all happened was still a blur to Castiel, but he still remembered the phone call as clearly as if it’d _just_ happened a moment ago—that absolutely _dreadful_ call that had woken him up at four in the morning on a Wednesday. While he’d rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, trying to get his drowsy mind to cooperate and actually process what was happening, a police officer had calmly informed him of what had happened, her voice heavy and grim. She’d told him about how a neighbor had called 911 when she’d heard some very concerning noises coming from Jimmy and Amelia’s house, and how when the police had finally gotten there, they’d found a dead Amelia lying on a pool of her own blood on the living room floor, her skull cracked where someone had apparently smashed her head against a wall with impressive strength, along with a crying, hysterical Claire sitting at her side, trying to shake her dead mother awake. Jimmy, however, had been nowhere to be found.

No one knew what had truly happened that night. Claire hadn’t seen anything—she had been asleep in her room upstairs when everything had happened. She didn’t know if someone had somehow gotten into the house, or if whoever had killed her mother had actually been invited inside. She’d simply woken up to some loud, odd noises coming from downstairs, but when she’d made her way down there to figure out what was happening, her mother had already been dead and there had been no sign of her father anywhere in the house.

Jimmy had been missing ever since, and Castiel was already starting to lose hope.

But he was trying to be strong for Claire. He was also going through a lot, of course—he’d really loved Amelia, and Jimmy was his _identical twin._ The thought that his brother might be dead, that they might never actually find him hurt so much that someone might as well have carved Castiel’s heart right out of his chest with a freaking butcher knife, leaving behind an empty, gaping hole that would never, ever be filled again; a wound that would never truly heal, no matter how much time passed. He already knew that he would have to endure this pain for several years to come, that he would carry it with him for the rest of his life, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

But he needed to be there for Claire. Castiel had been granted temporary custody of her while her father was considered missing, and he was truly doing everything he could to help her, to somehow make this whole thing easier for her, to be there for her whenever she needed him, even if she didn’t seem to want any of that. In fact, it seemed like she didn’t even want _look_ at him most of the time.

And Castiel couldn’t say he didn’t get that, too. His whole family seemed to be having a hard time looking at him now. Castiel and Jimmy were the very definition of _identical_ twins—even their parents sometimes had trouble telling them apart in the past. The two of them had very distinct personalities, and once they started talking, it was pretty hard to mix them up, but when they actually wanted to mess with people, there really was no telling which one was Jimmy and which one was Castiel—and of course, that had become some sort of a game for them in their teen years.

And sure, Jimmy normally styled his hair a lot more neatly than Castiel now, and thanks to the time one of Gabriel’s surprisingly elaborate pranks went horribly wrong back when they’d been younger, Castiel had a scar on the inside of his left forearm that Jimmy obviously didn’t have, but apart from those two tiny little details, even well into their adulthood, Castiel and Jimmy were still very much identical, and people still mistook one for the other sometimes, especially people who didn’t know them both very well.

But now, that was nothing more than a curse. When Castiel looked at himself in the mirror, he only saw the ghost of his brother staring back at him. His skin was pale, he’d lost weight, and his eyes were empty and unfocused—basically, he kind of looked like a walking corpse, which only made this whole thing even worse. Right now, to everyone around him, he knew he was nothing more than a constant reminder of someone they’d all lost. Every time he met anyone from his family, he always saw the same tiny spark of hope coming to life in their eyes, because for the briefest moment, part of them would think that maybe Jimmy had come back, that he’d been alive and well all along and had finally found its way back home.

But that hope would always crumble to dust soon enough, vanishing from sight as quickly as it’d come, only to be replaced by disappointment once they realized that it wasn’t Jimmy standing right in front of them.

Castiel had thought that would get easier with time, but it still felt like a stab to the heart every time.

“So there hasn’t been any news?” Hannah guessed, her voice low and sympathetic.

Castiel shook his head slowly, not quite finding his voice to verbalize his response.

“Then what is it?” Hannah insisted, “Castiel, you’ve been… I know you’re going through a lot right now. I’m aware of that— _everyone_ is. I know you’re not sleeping well, and I know you’re grieving. I’ve tried to… to make it easier for you, I truly have, but today, you’re… you’re worse. You’re more distant. I can tell. There’s something else bothering you.”

Castiel licked his dry lips, leaning back a bit more in his chair. Again, he definitely didn’t want to talk to anyone about this, but he knew he had no other choice here. Hannah wouldn’t simply let this go.

So he let out a big, relenting breath, shaking his head weakly as he admitted, “My father called last night. He… he’s coming to Pontiac for Christmas—which is something he’s never, _ever_ done before—and he’s coming early, too. He should be here next week.”

Hannah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, before a small confused frown took over her brows. “Wait, isn’t that a good thing?”

A low, bitter laugh jumped from Castiel’s lips before he could stop it. He shook his head again, letting his shoulders rise and fall in a feeble, halfhearted shrug. “This isn’t…” He stopped when his voice failed, pausing to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat before he tried again, “My parents can’t stand each other—they really can’t. I don’t think they’ve even spoken to each other again after their divorce was finalized thirty years ago. And now, all of a sudden, they… they want to spend _Christmas_ together. They want to gather up the whole family for the first time in over _three decades_.”

The Novak family had spent Christmas the exact same way for the past two decades or so. Naomi would host dinner at her house, and four out of her five children were expected to show up every year—with the exception of Gabriel, of course, who _sporadically_ decided to join them, normally without prior notice, but you could never really count on him to be there. He was always busy, especially during Christmas time, considering he owned an impressively big chain of toy and candy stores scattered all over the country, but every once in a while he would show up out of the blue claiming that he’d somehow managed to squeeze a family gathering into his ridiculously busy schedule.

But Michael, Anna, Castiel and Jimmy always showed up, because it was tradition. Michael, Anna and Jimmy would bring their families with them for Christmas dinner, and on Christmas Day, Jack—Castiel’s son—would normally come over to eat lunch and spend the day with his father’s side of the family. And while their family had never been perfect, Christmas had always been a pretty pleasant holiday. Castiel would get to spend some time with his siblings, and all of his nieces and nephews would spend both days playing and laughing together, effectively raising everyone’s spirits.

And all that was enough to make Castiel feel just a tiny bit less sour about the fact that his mother and Michael seemed so disturbingly fixated on his love life. They would always ask him if he’d met anyone interesting recently, telling him that maybe he should insist a little more, that he should look a little harder, that they were sure he would find someone eventually. Sometimes they would still ask him why he hadn’t married Kelly, because ‘she was his son’s mother, after all,’ and they’d made ‘ _such_ a cute couple, Castiel. I was _so sure_ you’d marry her.’

Castiel had grown used to it by now, and he’d learned that the best way of dealing with it was to simply ignore them both, but it was still incredibly annoying.

Chuck was never invited to those family gatherings for obvious reasons, but recently he'd started calling early on Christmas Day to ask how his children and grandchildren were doing. Castiel didn’t mind that his father rarely ever came to visit—Chuck had always been… distant, and the fact that he’d started reaching out to them at all, calling relatively often just to ask how everyone was doing, was already a pretty big improvement.

That routine had remained unchanged for years, but now the pattern had been broken. Jimmy and Amelia wouldn’t be coming over for Christmas dinner this year or for lunch on Christmas Day. Gabriel and Chuck were _both_ coming to Pontiac for the holidays. And Kelly had called Castiel last week to tell him that she wanted Jack to spend Christmas Eve with his father this year instead of with her and her parents, which had never happened before, either.

Everything had changed so fast— _too_ fast, so much that Castiel could barely keep up with it all.

He kept hoping— _wishing_ for it, really—that at any second now, he would just wake up and find out that none of this was actually real, that this whole thing had been nothing more than a horrible nightmare, even if he knew that holding on to that tiny shred of hope was pretty much delusional, and that he was only fooling himself by doing it.

But it wasn’t like he could do anything about it, like he had a _choice._

A hand came to rest over his own on top of his desk, warm and soothing, and Castiel looked back up to find Hannah staring at him with a pair of sad, worried blue eyes.

“You’re exhausted, Castiel,” Hannah whispered. Her voice was kind and gentle, like he was some delicate, fragile little thing that needed to be handled with the utmost care. “You can’t work like this. Why don’t you go home for the night and try to get some rest? I’ll get someone to cover the rest of your shift for you.”

Castiel was already shaking his head even before Hannah was done talking, and his voice was awfully scratchy and weak when he tried to argue, “Hannah, I can’t just leave right in the middle of my shift. I don’t—”

“Castiel, _please_ ,” Hannah all but begged, “You can’t help anyone like this. At this point, you might actually be putting your patients’ lives at risk by not respecting your own limits and pushing yourself too far. You need to rest.”

Castiel wanted to argue, of course. In fact, he even opened his mouth to do so, but he gave up at the very last second, and the words died on his tongue instead.

Hannah had a point there. Castiel was a doctor, for God’s sake. He couldn’t risk people’s lives by working like this, when he could barely even think straight, when he truly felt like he could just pass out at any second now. Working like this would be irresponsible and unethical, and he knew it.

And that last thought was precisely the reason why not too long after his conversation with Hannah, Castiel found himself walking out of the hospital through the back door of the main building, which led straight to the employees’ parking lot. He hugged his jacket tighter around his body when the cold, icy early-December air hit him with full force. The gentle breeze felt like needles digging into his skin as he walked across the darkened, completely deserted parking lot, slowly making his way toward his car, and when he let out a tired breath, it came out like a big, warm puff of air that danced in front of his face for a couple of seconds before it disappeared from sight. He didn’t put gloves on before coming out here, and he vehemently regretted that decision as he struggled to get his stiff fingers to cooperate, awkwardly digging around in his pockets as he looked for his car keys.

“Pretty cold out tonight, huh?”

Castiel jumped a little in surprise at the sound of an unknown voice coming from right behind him, since he had been pretty sure just a moment ago that the staff parking lot had been completely deserted, but apparently he’d been wrong about that. He turned around quickly, only to find a woman standing just a few steps away from him, leaning against one of the cars—nurse Tessa’s red Ford Focus, more specifically. The woman was wearing a black leather jacket along with mostly dark clothes and dark boots, and she had her arms crossed over her chest. There was a small smile playing on her lips, which had Castiel frowning in confusion. He had no idea who she was.

“It is, indeed,” he replied with a small nod, and when the strange woman simply quirked an eyebrow at him, not offering any other response, he glanced back down and resumed his search for his keys, but he just couldn’t seem to find them.

Damn it. Had he left them inside? He was certain that he’d left them in his coat pocket when he’d arrived at the hospital earlier. Maybe they’d fallen at some point? But then shouldn’t he have heard it? He didn’t remember—

“Looking for something?”

Castiel glanced at the woman again, ready to ask her who she was and what she was doing here, but he froze when he realized that she was holding up something—keys, more specifically, and Castiel instantly knew that they were _his_ keys, because among them, he could see the adorable little bee key chain that Jack had given him a few years ago.

Okay. What the hell?

Castiel frowned. “Where did you find those?”

The woman jiggled the keys a little, filling the air with the sound of metal clinking against metal, another smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, these? You just left them in your locker with the rest of your things, for anyone to take. Kind of careless, don’t you think?”

Castiel’s frown deepened even more, and he stared at the woman warily for a moment. Several alarms were suddenly ringing very loudly inside his head, while questions quickly piled up in his mind. Had she really broken into his locker? But his locker was _in his office,_ which he kept locked whenever he wasn’t there, so she must have somehow gotten in there, too. When had this happened? “Who are you?” he asked.

For some reason, that question seemed to amuse the woman. Her smile widened, and she tilted her head to the side a little as her expression shifted, changing into something more… pensive, like she was considering him, _examining_ him somehow. That made Castiel incredibly uncomfortable, and he shifted his weight on his feet.

“Your voice is lower than your brother’s. How does that work?” she asked, before another smile—this one mocking, teasing, like this was all some kind of joke to her—bled onto her lips. “I like yours better.”

Castiel’s entire body froze as soon as he heard those words. His eyes widened, and his muscles tensed up involuntarily as his heart picked up a much faster pace inside his chest.

The alarms ringing inside his head grew even louder.

“Oh, yes, I knew your brother,” the woman said before Castiel could find his voice to respond. She let her hand—the one still holding his keys—fall to hang at her side as she leaned away from Tessa’s car, straightening up a bit so that she was standing at her full height. Castiel fought the urge to take a step back as she did it, even if she was considerably shorter than him. For some reason, he suddenly felt the urge to put some distance between them, like a thoughtless reaction that he had absolutely no control over. “It’s a shame, really—what happened to him. I was really hoping he and I could have some fun together, but unfortunately, that didn’t work out the way I planned it. He bailed on me  _right_ before we could actually get to the good part.”

There was something concealed behind her words, a hidden meaning lingering just beneath those syllables, and even if he wasn't sure what that could be exactly, that realization had a chill running down Castiel’s spine.

The man’s hands had curled into fists at his sides by that point, and he noticed that he was shaking a bit, a slight tremble running through his entire body, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he was feeling right then. Confusion, fear, anger—all of it blended together inside of him, turning into a true thunderstorm—dark and powerful and honestly disorienting. He had no idea what to think in that moment, what that woman could mean by those words; all he knew for certain was that he had a _very_ bad feeling about her.

“Who _are_ you?” he asked again, though this time, his voice came out much lower and sharper than before, almost like a growl, “What do you want?”

A lazy smile appeared in the woman’s face, curling her lips once more, though there was an odd spark in her eyes now, something that had yet another wave of fear and uneasiness washing over Castiel’s insides, making him even more wary. She looked almost… predatory as she eyed him up and down, as she considered him once again, as she all but _measured_ him with her eyes, and it was in that moment that Castiel finally realized something.

This woman was dangerous. He had no doubts about it.

“Name’s Meg,” she drawled easily, almost lazily, the words dragging on her tongue as she let them out. She took a step forward, eyes still focused on Castiel, that unsettling smile still playing on her lips.

Without a thought, out of pure instinct, Castiel took a step back, only to pull in a sharp, startled breath when he felt his back press against the cold, metallic body of his car.

He looked around briefly—for just a second, really, because he refused to look away from that woman for any longer than that—but much to his dismay, he found that the parking lot was still completely deserted apart from himself and that woman.

He wondered if she had a weapon hidden somewhere on her—a knife, or maybe even a gun. If she didn’t, then Castiel was fairly certain that he could get away from her, but he had a feeling that might not be the case here. She seemed far too confident and relaxed, like she knew that she was completely in control here and that Castiel offered her no danger at all.

Castiel swallowed thickly at that thought, mouth and throat feeling unusually dry all of a sudden, heart beating even faster inside his chest.

“I don’t know what you want,” Castiel said, forcing the words out of his mouth. They came out lower than he’d intended, but they sounded strong, firm, his voice unwavering, thankfully not giving away just how nervous he was feeling in that moment, “But I would very much appreciate it if you just gave me back my keys and walked away right now.” He could only hope that he was wrong about her; that this was nothing more than just a big misunderstanding; that what had happened to Jimmy had simply made him paranoid, and that this woman hadn’t actually done something to his brother.

But unfortunately, he just wasn’t so lucky.

“You seem braver than your brother, too,” she commented, voice sounding almost… distracted, like for a moment, she got lost in her own head, reliving a memory in her mind. But she seemed to snap out of it quickly enough, and she tilted her head to the side again, regarding Castiel carefully once more, her eyes sharp and focused, her lips curling into yet another unsettling smile. “I wasn’t sure about you before, but now I’m betting on you, Clarence. I really hope you’re more durable than James was.”

And that was it—that was the exact moment Castiel realized that he’d been right before. This woman really _was_ dangerous.

However, he had no time to react, to _act_ on that newfound knowledge.

It happened too fast. In a second, Meg was standing several feet away from him, her posture relaxed, not giving away anything about what she might be about to do, not allowing Castiel to know for sure whether or not she had any intention of doing anything to him.

And then in the next, she had already crossed the distance between them, moving faster than Castiel was able to process, and his brain was still trying to understand how she’d even moved so fast when Meg reached him. Somehow, he managed to lift his arms in front of his chest in an attempt to protect himself, to maybe push her away, but that did absolutely nothing to help him, and suddenly his body was slamming _hard_ against his Prius, so much that the car’s alarm went off. Also, he was pretty sure the metal might have dented with the impact.

Castiel fell to the ground with a low, pained grunt, his head spinning as his ears were filled with the loud, unrelenting noise from his car’s alarm, but he didn’t know where he was or where his _car_ was, or even which side was up and _fuck,_ his back hurt. It hurt _a lot._ How the hell did Meg do that? How did she—

Castiel’s keys fell right in front of his face, landing on the asphalt right before his eyes, but the man didn’t get a chance to try and reach for them. He didn’t get a chance to defend himself, or even to look up at Meg and see what she was doing.

Suddenly, before he could do _anything_ about it, a hand gripped the hair on the back of his head, pulling the man’s head up by the short strands it found there, and Castiel winced at the pain that caused, but for some reason, he found he couldn’t fight the movement at all.

A voice—low, smooth and truly unsettling—whispered right into his ear, sending yet another chill down his spine, “We’re gonna have so much fun together, Clarence.”

Once again, Castiel had no time to react, no time to figure out what exactly those words might mean, because the next thing he knew was pain—in the back of his head, sharp and abrupt, like Meg had hit him there with something hard.

And then the world turned black. He saw nothing after that.

***~*~*~*~***

Pain. That was the first thing Castiel became aware of, although initially he couldn’t quite figure out where the worst of it was coming from. The most prominent one was the pain in his head—a constant sort of ache that grew even worse when he tried to move—though his back was also killing him, so much that even the smallest movement was already enough to rip a long string of pained winces and groans out of him.

He honestly felt like he’d been run over by a tractor, but he needed to move. He wasn’t sure what exactly had happened to him—he couldn’t remember much, considering his head was all fuzzy and weird, his thoughts an incoherent mess that was honestly making him a little dizzy—so he had no idea what exactly was wrong with him, but something was yelling inside of him, urging him to move, telling him that he couldn’t just lie there and wait for the pain to fade. Something was very, _very_ wrong, and suddenly he knew without a doubt that he had to figure out where he was and what’d happened to him, and he had to do it fast.

But in order to do that, he needed to assess the damage, to examine his body, to look for the source—the _cause_ of all that pain. Maybe that would help him remember.

So Castiel gritted his teeth together, gathering up all the willpower he could find within him, and rolled over. The floor felt cold and hard beneath his palms, and his shoulders _screamed_ in agony when he started to lift his body up from the floor, but he didn’t give up, refusing to allow his arms to buckle under his weight.

Unfortunately, however, his willpower alone apparently wasn’t enough, and he didn’t exactly have a say in the matter when his arms failed to hold his weight up and his body simply collapsed right back down to the floor. A startled huff jumped from his lips when that happened, followed by a pained groan.

Damn it.

“I wouldn’t try to do that if I were you.”

The sound of a voice startled him, and Castiel jumped, then flinched because _of course_ that hurt. Apparently, he should really avoid fast, abrupt movements.

So he took a couple of slow, deep breaths, trying to steady himself, before he finally managed to open his eyes.

The room around him was dark, apparently completely devoid of windows—or maybe it was still night outside. Either way, he couldn’t see anything. He squinted, lifting his head and waiting for his eyes to adjust as he tried to look for the source of that new, unfamiliar voice.

A shape moved closer to him in the darkness, and he flinched again, recoiling slightly.

What he assumed to be a pair of hands appeared in his vision, palms visible and turned toward him, as though whoever was there with him had just raised their hands in front of their body, like a silent, wordless peace offering.

“It’s okay,” the same voice from before replied. It was a female voice, but that was all Castiel could tell based on the sound of it alone. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I’m not… I’m not one of them. I just… We’re kind of on the same boat here, I think. I’m assuming they jumped you too? Knocked you out and brought you here?”

It took a moment for Castiel’s slow, confused mind to make any sense out of those words, to truly process the meaning behind them, but eventually, the memories finally came back to him, slowly sliding into the forefront of his mind.

“I was… leaving work early, because I wasn’t feeling well,” he let out in a small whisper, talking more to himself than to that unknown woman as he struggled to get his mind to cooperate, to make sense out of his messy, confused thoughts. “There was a woman, in the parking lot. I think she was waiting for me. She… she hit me in the head with something. I don’t remember anything after that.”

And she’d apparently done something to his brother, too, but Castiel chose not to share that particular piece of information now. He didn’t know who this woman was. He couldn’t even _see_ her.

“I’m not from around here. I was traveling, for work,” the woman provided when a heavy silence took over the room. It almost sounded like she just wanted to fill it. Or maybe she just wished to make Castiel feel better by sharing her own story with him, since he’d sort of just shared his, even if he really hadn’t said all that much. “I’m a secretary, down in Peoria, but my boss is completely lost without me, so when he came to Pontiac for a business meeting, he brought me along as some sort of assistant. We’re staying at a hotel, and I was… I went out to have dinner at this cute little Italian place that this girl at the coffee shop was telling me about, but when I came back to the hotel, there was a woman there too, in the parking lot. She was dressed in all black, speaking like she owned the whole freaking town or something. Honestly, she was… scary. And it seemed like… like she was waiting for me, too.”

Immediately, Castiel knew this woman was talking about Meg, even if she hadn’t offered a very detailed description of the person who’d jumped her. But Castiel didn’t need one—he just knew, without a sliver of doubt.

“She hit me in the head too, I think,” the woman continued before Castiel could say anything. “I don’t remember much. It’s all kind of a blur, honestly. And then… well, I woke up here.”

So their stories truly were pretty similar, then, which meant that there was pattern here. This wasn’t just some random occurrence, if Meg really had been _waiting_ for them both.

But _why?_ What did she want with them? And why _them?_

Was Jimmy brought here too? Was he left here, wherever that was, in pain and confused? Had this woman talked to him too?

“How long have you been here?” Castiel asked. He winced as he tried to lift himself from the floor again, and it still hurt— _a lot,_ by the way—but this time, he actually managed to sit up.

“I don’t know,” the woman replied in a small, raspy voice, “A few hours, I think. I don’t know for sure.”

_Hours?_

So she hadn’t been here when Jimmy had, then—if, well, Meg truly had taken Jimmy as well and brought him here.

“There was a girl here when I woke up,” the woman added, “She was… she was in pain, I think—or at least that’s what it sounded like. She kept squirming and moaning, but… she grew quiet eventually. She… she’s still there, in the corner. I just… I haven’t really found the courage to go over there and check if she’s still breathing.”

Castiel’s entire body froze at that, a wave of fear flooding his insides. He looked around, as though hoping to spot the girl’s dead body somehow, even if he still couldn’t see all that well, not when the lighting was so poor, when darkness shrouded his surroundings so completely.

He didn’t find the very-possibly-dead girl, and he wasn’t sure if he should be glad for that or not.

Did this mean that... that his brother was dead? Had Jimmy been thrown here in this room, only to die like that, in the dark and without anyone there to help him, without anyone to mourn him? Was he here long? What the _hell_ had Meg done to him?

And what the hell did she plan to do to Castiel now?

“I’m Ava, by the way,” the woman—the live one, sitting just a few feet away from him—added, abruptly snapping the man out of his thoughts and bringing him back to reality.

“I’m Castiel,” he replied, allowing his hands to wander, patting at his own clothes, checking his pockets. He found his wallet, but much to his dismay, his phone seemed to be gone. Meg had probably taken it from him after she’d knocked him unconscious. He wasn’t exactly surprised by that, of course, but he was still frustrated by it.

Damn it.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked.

The dark, blurry shape in front of him moved a little—it looked like Ava was shaking her head. “No. All I’ve seen from this place is this room—well, kind of. It’s been dark since I woke up, so I haven’t actually _seen_ anything, but I didn’t _leave,_ so I didn’t—well, I think you get it.”

Castiel nodded, even if Ava probably couldn’t see it. “But earlier, you said you weren’t one of _them,_ ” he pointed out. “How do you know there’s more than one? That it’s not only… the woman from the parking lot? Did you see anyone else?”

“I didn’t see them, but I heard them,” Ava replied easily, without a beat. “They argue a lot, apparently. I’ve only been here a few hours, but I already heard two fights. From what I can tell, it’s that… creepy woman and some other guy.”

Okay, that made things a little more difficult, but at least they weren’t at too big of a disadvantage here. There were two of them in here, and two of them out there. This could be an even fight, if they did his right.

There was still a chance that he and Ava might make it out of this place alive.

“Well, there’s only one thing I know for certain,” he decided, wincing as he tried to get up from the floor. It hurt, and he was still a little dizzy, so the room spun around him for a moment, but eventually, he finally found himself standing somewhat steadily on his feet. “We need to figure out how to get out of here, before it’s too late.”

“Yeah,” Ava agreed, though she didn’t exactly sound confident about it, “But I’ve been trying to find a way out of this room for _hours._ There are no windows, just one door, and a whole bunch of junk by the walls. I’m pretty sure this is a basement.”

Castiel did not allow himself to lose hope at those words. “Well, then I guess we’ll just have to make do with what we have.”

He didn’t wait for Ava to respond. No, he simply put his new plan into action without another word and started to feel around, to explore his environment, taking tentative, careful steps as he tried to navigate whatever room they were in, keeping his hands raised in front of his body so that he wouldn’t walk into anything.

He could only hope that he wouldn’t end up tripping over that girl’s corpse.

He’d been in that room long enough for his eyes to have adjusted a little bit to the lack of light, but that didn’t mean that he could actually _see_ anything. Mostly, he could see some shapes, meaningless shadows that danced mockingly in front of his eyes, but when he finally reached them, they felt foreign against his palms—countless objects that he couldn’t quite identify covered what appeared to be several metal shelves by the walls.

Ava was right—this room really did seem to be a basement, or maybe some sort of storage room.

Carefully, Castiel let his hands trace the shapes, its patterns, trying to identify the various items he came across, trying to find something useful, something that could help them escape, but he had no idea what most of the things he came across truly were. He found some books and an old umbrella, but also wooden blocks and heavy, metal tools that he couldn’t identify by touch alone.

One of the tools was long and sharp. It had what felt like a plastic handle and a long, thin metal body, almost like a screwdriver, but the metal end of it wasn’t flat or shaped in any way—it was actually pointy and very much sharp. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but he still tucked it away in the inside pocket of his trench coat, just in case. Whatever it was, he felt like that tool could turn out to be useful here, something he could use to defend himself if necessary.

He could hear Ava moving around on the other side of the room, probably exploring as well, and from time to time, one of them would drop something, causing the other to jump and curse in surprise, but otherwise, they each kept to their half of the room, working separately, but toward the same goal—finding useful items and somehow figuring out a way to get out of that room.

They worked on those tasks for what must have been an hour, and they were still rummaging through all the weird items stored in that room when a lock suddenly clicked, sounding far too loud in the dead silence that had engulfed the room up until that moment.

Castiel jumped in surprise, then swallowed drily when he realized what was happening, pressing his back against one of the shelves right behind him, hands gripping its metal edge just a bit too tightly. He wasn’t sure where exactly he should be looking, since he wasn’t sure where the exit was, but he found it quickly enough, as in the next second, the door was slowly pushed open, allowing a sliver of light to pool inside the room.

Castiel squinted because of it, raising a hand in front of his face. That tiny shred of light seemed far too bright to him after having spent what must have been over an hour inside such a dark room.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice drawled from the direction of the door, and Castiel saw a dark figure step slowly into the room—Meg, Castiel thought, gritting his teeth together in anger. He couldn’t actually see her face, but he would recognize her voice anywhere, even if he hadn't heard it all that much until now. “What do we have here? Two curious little birds, aren’t you? Find anything interesting?”

Castiel and Ava remained completely silent.

Another figure—a man, this time—walked inside the room, pausing so that he was standing right behind Meg, just a few steps away from the partially open door. He didn’t say anything, though—no, he just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, his posture unnervingly stiff, like he was some sort of bodyguard or something.

That must be the man Ava had heard, Castiel thought, or at least he hoped so. Their chances of escaping this place would grow even slimmer if there was a _third_ person keeping them here, someone else that they had to get away from.

“Silent treatment?” Meg asked, sounding amused. Castiel thought he saw her shrug, but it was too dark for him to know for sure. “Fine by me.”

The dark shape that Castiel knew to be Meg started moving toward him, and he tensed up, pressing his back even harder against the shelves behind him, his first instinct to try and put some distance between them, as useless as that may be. Since now he could see just a tiny bit better, he let his eyes dart across the darkened room around him, desperately looking for something, _anything_ that could help him, but unsurprisingly, he found nothing. Fuck, even if he got away from Meg somehow, there was still that guy standing by the door. If only Castiel could—

“What do you want with us?” Ava all but shouted from the other side of the room, startling Castiel. He tried to look at her, but he couldn’t exactly see her—just a dark shape standing by the opposite wall that he _assumed_ must be her. “Why did you bring us here? You have no freaking _right_ to just… keep us _locked_ in this room. Just let us _go!_ ”

Meg paused, steps halting abruptly, and Castiel was pretty sure he saw a smile curling her lips. She turned around slowly so that she was facing Ava when she replied, “Oh, sweetheart, I don’t think you understand how this works.”

Even with a little bit of light pouring into the room through the half-open door, it was still way too dark to really see anything clearly, and Castiel blamed that for his inability to truly process what happened next, because what he _thought_ he saw just didn’t make any _sense._

Once again, it seemed like Meg had moved in the blink of an eye, and suddenly she was holding Ava by the door of the room, her arms wrapped around the girl’s throat, holding Ava in a headlock from behind, and Castiel had no idea how she’d reached Ava and dragged the girl across the room so fast, but somehow it’d happened—there was no denying that. He was watching the scene with his own two eyes, after all.

“Let me go!” Ava shouted, struggling against Meg’s arms, squirming in the other woman’s hold, but it seemed like she just couldn’t break free, no matter how hard she tried. If anything, that only seemed to annoy Meg, who apparently tightened her hold around the other woman’s throat even more, because Ava started gasping just a moment later, clearly struggling to breathe.

“Let me explain something to you,” Meg started, and her voice was considerably lower now, a subtle, threatening edge to it, which made her sound even more dangerous. However, she still seemed pretty calm—unnervingly so—and it didn’t even sound like she was struggling to hold Ava in place at all. In fact, it sounded like that was the easiest thing in the world to her, like it didn’t even take any _effort_. “You don’t ask questions here. The moment I brought you here, your pathetic little life was over. You’re ours, and we’ll do whatever the hell we want with you two, because we _can,_ and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Got it?”

Ava was still struggling against Meg’s hold, but she was also shaking by that point, pulling in tiny, raspy breaths. Castiel was pretty sure she must be growing red in the face from the lack of oxygen, even if he couldn’t actually see it.

“I asked—” Meg growled, leaning closer to Ava’s ear, her voice even sharper than before. She shook the girl a little too harshly, and Ava whimpered, even if she apparently couldn’t breathe. “Do you _understand?”_

“ _Meg,_ ” the man finally spoke up from his spot by the door, his voice sharp as well, carrying an obvious hint of annoyance. He didn’t sound worried, though, just… impatient, like Meg was a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “We need _both_ of them alive, you know that. Scare her all you want later, if you have the chance, but right now, we gotta be careful. Or have you forgotten why we’re here again?”

Meg huffed, clearly annoyed by the man’s words, but apparently, they had the desired effect on her. She still rolled her eyes—or at least Castiel was pretty sure she did—but in the end, she relented, letting go of Ava and pushing the girl harshly to the floor.

Ava fell, hitting the floor with another whimper, before she began gasping, wrapping one hand protectively around her own throat as she pulled in several big, noisy breaths of air into her lungs.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Meg all but growled, stepping over to the man standing by the door. She lifted her hand in the air, holding it out toward the man, as though waiting for something. “So just shut up and give me the damn things, would ya? I’m hungry, and I’m dying for some fresh air.”

Castiel couldn’t tell if the man was annoyed by Meg’s words, but he did hesitate for a moment before reaching into his jacket and pulling something out of what Castiel assumed must be an inside pocket.

He handed Meg what appeared to be two syringes—the light coming from behind him hit them just the right way for Castiel to see them clearly when the man held them up in the air. The syringes seemed to be filled with something dark, and Castiel’s heart jumped inside his chest as soon as that fact registered in his mind.

 _No._ They couldn’t… They _wouldn’t…_ would they?

What were these people _doing? Why_ were they doing this?

Ava was still gasping on the floor, too preoccupied with pulling enough oxygen into her lungs after having gone so long without being able to breathe properly, so she didn’t even pay it any mind when Meg crouched down right behind her—she didn't even seem to notice it happening at all, really—and she had no time to do anything before the other woman gripped the back of her head. Ava simply winced when it happened, probably because Meg seemed to pull her head back rather forcefully, tugging painfully at the girl’s hair.

And without a single second of hesitation, before anyone could do anything about it, before Castiel could even _process_ what was happening, Meg jammed the needle of the syringe right into the girl’s neck, pushing whatever dark liquid resided within it right into the girl’s bloodstream.

Castiel took a step forward out of pure instinct, without a single thought, his first reaction to try to help Ava, but he froze only a second later when he realized that he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help if he went over there. So instead, all he did was watch with wide, scared eyes as Ava’s hands moved up to scratch at her neck as soon as Meg pulled the syringe back, right at the spot where the needle had been buried into her flesh only a moment prior, as though hoping to claw out whatever Meg had injected into her body—to no avail, of course.

A few seconds passed without change, until a loud, ugly scream suddenly tore out of the girl's mouth, and when Meg finally released her, Ava fell to the floor again, writhing and crying, clearly in pain, just like she’d described the other girl to have been when she’d first woken up in that room.

Castiel felt his throat run dry at that thought.

Meg let the syringe she’d just emptied fall to the floor by her feet, clattering loudly against the cement. Castiel couldn’t help but flinch at the sound.

“Well,” Meg smiled, holding up the second syringe, which was still full of what Castiel could only guess was the same substance she’d just injected Ava with, “Your turn, Clarence.”

She took a step forward—a slow one this time—and Castiel took a step back, pressing his back against the shelves behind him once more, as though he hoped that he could somehow phase through them and disappear from that room.

But of course that didn’t happen, and when Meg continued to talk toward him, a very unsettling smile playing on her lips and that damn freaking syringe held firmly in her hand, almost like she was taunting him, Castiel felt panic rising within him, his heart beating so fast inside his chest that it might as well be trying to climb up his throat.

So he didn’t even _think_ before blurting out, “What did you do to Jimmy?”

Meg’s steps faltered again, like she hadn’t expected to hear that question. However, her smile seemed to widen just a second later. “Oh, I think you’ve figured it out already, haven’t you, Clarence?” she asked, sounding amused. She resumed her slow, calm walk toward him just as the last few words slithered out of her mouth.

Castiel winced when he noticed that he couldn’t move backwards even an inch further, the sharp metal edge of the shelves behind him digging painfully into his back when he tried.

He was trapped, with nowhere to run.

Damn it.

Behind Meg on the floor, Ava continued to squirm and whimper in pain, her body bent in on itself, her arms wrapped around her small frame.

Castiel gulped, but somehow managed to force a few more words out of his mouth, “You killed him.” His voice came out surprisingly strong and sharp, accusing even, and he was pretty proud of that, even if he knew that wouldn’t exactly help him now.

Meg chuckled—a dry sound that made Castiel even more uneasy, sending a chill down his spine—but kept walking, growing worryingly close to him with every new step she took. “Now, don’t be rude, Clarence. You can’t just go around accusing people of something like _that._ Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

Meg was uncomfortably close by then, and Castiel flinched when she raised her free hand toward him, brushing the tips of her long fingernails against his stubble-covered cheek. He shivered in discomfort at the feeling of it, pulling in a small, sharp breath.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, _Castiel,_ ” Meg let his name—so she _did_ know his actual name, then—roll off her tongue in a way that made Castiel’s skin crawl. It sounded wrong, mocking, and Castiel hated it. “I might go easy on you, if you last long enough for it. I meant what I said—we’re gonna have a _lot_ of fun together.” The meaning concealed behind her words made Castiel’s stomach slosh unpleasantly.

Near the door, the man scoffed.

Castiel wasn’t sure what did it—if it was the hidden meaning behind Meg’s words, the adrenaline currently coursing through his veins and making him act completely driven by his panic, or if it was the thought that maybe Jimmy had been in the exact same position he was in right now when his brother had been here—alone and scared, listening to Meg play with her words like that, saying whatever she wanted like she _owned_ him somehow, like he didn’t have a _say_ in any of this, feeling so utterly helpless that he couldn’t fucking _breathe_.

But whatever caused it didn’t really matter; what truly mattered was the fact that in the next second, Castiel finally snapped out of it and sprang into action; that he finally tried to put up a _fight._

He didn’t allow himself to think about it—he didn’t even have the time to do it, really. His body pretty much moved on its own accord, acting on instinct alone as Castiel closed his hand into a fist at his side and swung it through the air as quickly as he could, letting his hand connect _hard_ against the side of Meg’s face.

Now, he _had_ punched people before, mind you, so he knew how to do it—most importantly, he knew what _not_ to do so that he wouldn’t actually hurt himself.

So it was fair to say that he was pretty surprised when he felt the pain—strong and abrupt, like he’d just tried to punch a freaking _wall._

Castiel gritted his teeth together at the pain, pulling his wounded hand back without a thought, cradling it with his good one. He looked up quickly, though, trying to ignore the pain because he didn’t have time to worry about that now, much less to actually do anything about it, but he didn’t actually get a chance to try to do anything else, because suddenly a hand had wrapped itself around his wounded wrist, twisting his arm behind his back far too easily and causing him even _more_ pain. He let out a pained shout before he could stop it, falling to his knees on the floor with Meg standing right behind him, holding his arm firmly in place and pressing it painfully against his back, bending his shoulder in an unnatural way that had Castiel seeing stars behind his eyelids _._ Her hold on his arm was way too tight, too _strong_ , so much that he couldn’t break free, and _fuck,_ it _hurt._ How the _hell_ did she do that?

The man was still standing by the door, completely silent and unmoving. He looked bored, looking very much uninterested in what was happening right in front of him, completely unfazed by the scene currently playing right in front of his eyes, like this was all _normal_ to him.

A few steps away, Ava continued to writhe on the floor, though her breathing was a lot louder now, struggled and raspy, like her throat was closing up.

“ _Anyone_ else who tried to pull something like that on me would be dead by now,” Meg growled behind him, uncomfortably close to his right ear. He flinched because of it. “I want you to know that. But I like you, Clarence. You’ve got spite, unlike your brother.”

She tightened her grip on his arm, and Castiel let out a pathetic little whine, wincing because of the pain.

“And I didn’t _kill_ your brother, by the way,” Meg continued, “I brought him here, and I did to him _exactly_ what I’m about to do to you. Problem is—not everyone survives this little experiment of ours. Your brother lasted two days before his heart gave out.” She leaned down and even closer to him so that she could whisper right into the man’s ear, her lips actually brushing against his skin.

Castiel flinched again because of it, squeezing his eyes closed shut and wanting nothing more than to pull away from her, or perhaps to push _her_ away, but he just _couldn’t_ _freaking_ _move_.

Her next words were breathed into his ear, sending yet another chill down his spine.

“Let’s see how long _you_ last.”

And then he felt a prick on the side of his neck—the needle of that syringe digging into his flesh, he guessed.

Meg let go of him right after pushing the piston, right after injecting the worryingly thick contents of that syringe right into his bloodstream, and Castiel fell to the floor as well, hands flying up to grab at his neck much like Ava had done earlier, clawing at the spot where he could feel a very concerning burning sensation blooming right underneath his skin.

That did nothing to help him, of course, and the feeling spread to the rest of his body in no time at all, like a fire that very quickly consumed him whole, that swallowed every single inch of his body, burning him alive from the inside out.

And not too long after that, all he knew was pain, consuming him, filling all of his senses, blinding him to the world around him, but there was nothing he could do to make it stop. He was completely helpless, and all he could do was writhe and scream on the floor, clawing at empty air, at his burning skin, praying for that pain to go away, hoping with everything he had that someone— _anyone_ would hear his desperate screams; that someone would somehow find him here and _save_ him.

But no one came.

***~*~*~*~***

Castiel woke up slowly.

For some reason, the scene felt familiar to him, like he’d already lived it before. The cold, hard floor underneath him, his confused mind, the lingering pains in his body—all of it felt like a repetition of something he’d already experienced not too long ago.

That was, until he opened his eyes and found that he could actually _see._

The room around him was exactly as he’d imagined it, and he took a moment to carefully examine his surroundings, to take everything in. He could actually see the walls that currently imprisoned him, could see how small and cramped that room truly was, with several odd items occupying all the shelves that lined up most of the walls—from an old typing machine to several tiny trinkets, like small little figurines and dolls. He could see it all now, as clearly as if sunlight were pouring freely into the room.

Which didn’t make any _sense._ There still weren’t any lights inside that room, no windows, and yet he could see _everything,_ every single detail of every single random object around him, like he was pointing a flashlight everywhere he looked, and he had no idea what to make of that, or how it was even _possible._

He pushed that thought away for now, though, because as his initial confusion faded and his head finally cleared up, as his memories from the last time he’d been awake and lucid slipped into the forefront of his mind, one objective suddenly became clear to him, and he immediately knew that he needed to focus all his energy into working toward it.

He had to get out of here.

At that thought, he sat up and turned his head around, letting his eyes scan the room more carefully, surveying his surroundings more cautiously, paying more attention to everything he saw, looking for something useful, something that could actually help him escape.

And that was when he noticed that there was one more person with him in that room. However, that person wasn’t moving, instead lying motionless on the floor just a few feet away from him.

“Ava,” Castiel whispered, hurrying to scramble over to where she was. He froze just a second later, though, his entire body tensing up for a second as he expected to be hit with yet another wave of pain after moving so abruptly and carelessly, for that fire to come back to life inside of him and send him right back to the inferno that he’d been trapped in for _days._

But he felt nothing. Actually, he couldn’t feel _any_ pain at all now—a stark change from what the past few days had been like. When he’d first woken up just a moment ago, he’d felt a bit of it—a lingering echo of that burning pain, weak as it may have been. He’d felt sore, and a bit achy, which had made him a bit hesitant to move.

But now, all of that was gone. He felt… nothing. Even his hand wasn’t hurting anymore, even though he’d been certain that he’d hurt it pretty badly when he’d tried to punch Meg, probably as badly as if he’d tried to punch an actual wall.

He chose not to think too much about that, though. Honestly, he was just relieved to be free from that intense, endless pain; from feeling like he was constantly burning alive and freezing to death, all at the same time. And it had lasted for _so long_ , too—actual _days_ , if he had to guess. He shuddered from just remembering it, and he hurried to try and push any thoughts concerning the past few days away, wishing he could just forget about it and never, _ever_ think of it again, but those thoughts still hovered in the back of his mind like a shadow, silently begging for his attention, just waiting for the right moment to strike, to make themselves known again.

He didn’t know what this whole situation meant, what it actually entailed. He didn’t understand what had happened to him throughout the past few days, or what Meg had given him to cause all that pain. He had never heard of such a thing, and he couldn’t even _imagine_ what exactly she’d injected him with.

He was just glad it was over now, and that somehow, by some freaking _miracle,_ he was still _alive._

Castiel shook his head as he kneeled beside Ava’s far-too-still form, deciding he could think about himself later. Right now, he needed to help Ava, and then try to figure out a way to get them both out of here. He’d been given a second chance, because he was still here, still _breathing,_ and he needed to make it count.

At first, Castiel felt his heart sink to the floor when he caught sight of Ava’s face, because it didn’t look like she was breathing, but when he touched two fingers to her pulse point, carefully pressing his fingertips against the—thankfully warm—skin on the side of her neck, he let out a breath of relief.

She had a heartbeat—a very weak one, indeed, but that was still something. Ava was also still alive.

“Are you fucking _serious?_ ”

Castiel jumped, his eyes wide, head snapping up to take in the room around him once again, because that voice had sounded far too loud and clear to have come from outside, but quickly enough he realized that it must have. The door of that room was still closed, and he was still alone apart from Ava’s unconscious form.

What the hell?

“No, I’m telling you a fucking _joke,_ ” Meg’s sharp voice replied just as loudly, “Of course I’m fucking serious!”

Meg and that man from before seemed to be right outside that room, and they both sounded incredibly annoyed.

Castiel hunched in on himself at that realization, unconsciously trying to make himself seem smaller, even though the two couldn’t possibly see him in that room, not with the door closed shut. He held his breath and he stayed where he was, not moving a single muscle, afraid to make even the smallest sound, because he definitely shouldn’t let them know that he was awake.

“Meg, you can’t go out there. If there’s really a hunter around here—”

“Then I’ll deal with it! What the hell do you think I am—a _child?_ You know I can take care of myself.”

“But, Meg, if you don’t—”

“Fuck off, Tom! You know I have to do this. And I really need some fresh air, because I’m tired of looking at your fucking face, so for fuck’s sake, just go look at those two or something, check if they’re still breathing. Make yourself _useful_ for a fucking change.”

“Meg—”

“Don’t even fucking start.”

A door slammed shut loudly outside, and Castiel flinched.

Well, then. So they really did argue a lot.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other side of that door, until Castiel heard what sounded like a heavy, exasperated breath, followed by the sound of footsteps.

Footsteps that seemed to coming right for that door.

Castiel held his breath again, feeling his heart speeding up inside his chest when he realized that the man—Tom was apparently his name—seemed to be coming to that room to check on him and Ava, just like Meg had told him to.

And that meant that Castiel needed to act fast.

So he did. Without allowing himself to think too much about what he was doing, letting his body move on its own accord, he lifted himself from the floor without making a sound and quietly slipped toward the door, barely even breathing as he moved. He grabbed a big, old-looking piece of wood that he found resting against a wall as he went, because he felt like he would need some sort of weapon to protect himself with, then pressed his back against the wall right beside the door, so that he would be concealed from sight when that door was pushed open.

Ava remained unmoving on the floor, still clearly unconscious.

Castiel closed his eyes and waited, his entire body tense, hand gripping the wooden plank in his hand a bit too tightly, so much that he could feel a splinter or two digging into his skin, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He swallowed drily, trying to will himself to calm down, to push down his nerves, because he needed his mind to be clear for this. He needed to concentrate. He couldn’t panic now. It wouldn’t do him any good.

The door—a heavy old thing made out of metal, which kind of made this room look like a freaking prison cell—was unlocked soon after with a loud click, then pushed open with a metallic whine that made Castiel flinch, the sound of it painful to his oddly sensitive ears.

Tom walked into the room calmly, and Castiel didn’t allow himself to freaking _breathe_ as Tom took a few slow steps toward the center of the room, glancing down at the sleeve of his jacket—which seemed to be torn, for some reason—fiddling with it with his head hanging low.

And while the man’s back was still turned to him, while Tom was distracted with his jacket sleeve, Castiel took his chance.

He pounced.

The wood, old and rotten as it was, didn’t do much good—it broke as soon as it hit the back of Tom’s head, and Castiel felt panic rise inside of him when the hit didn’t seem hurt Tom at all—the man didn’t even seem disoriented in the slightest, for God’s sake, and much to Castiel’s despair, Tom was quick to spin around, lifting his head and fixing Castiel with a pair of surprised, angry eyes.

Castiel tried to punch him, even if it had done absolutely nothing for him when he’d tried to do it to Meg, but Tom moved way too fast, swiftly ducking out of the way and grabbing Castiel’s wrist before his closed fist could connect with the other man’s jaw. He twisted Castiel’s arm behind his back and spun him around effortlessly, much like Meg had done to him days ago, though instead of holding him in place like she had, Tom was quick to push him harshly, and Castiel fell forward, slamming hard against the wall right beside the door with a startled huff, hitting his head against it.

The room was suddenly spinning around him and his head was _pounding_ , and he wasn’t sure where Tom was anymore, but he still tried to get back to his feet, still tried to put up a fight. However, a hand curled itself around his throat before Castiel could actually get back to his feet, and suddenly he was standing again, but his back was being pressed forcefully against the wall right behind him, an iron fist wrapped around his throat, easily holding him in place while also trying to suffocate him.

“You know, I was really hoping you wouldn’t actually survive,” Tom commented, his words sharp, an angry fire burning in his brown eyes. Castiel had really pissed him off, it seemed. “I don’t know why my sister’s so fixated on you. She’s been rooting for you since the moment she found out that Jimmy guy had a damn identical twin. It’s really annoying, actually.”

Sister? Was he talking about Meg?

Castiel frowned, but couldn’t get any words out, not with his oxygen intake so compromised. He gasped, struggling to breathe, raising his hands to grip at Tom’s wrists so he could scratch at the other man’s skin, trying to pull that hand away, but that did absolutely nothing to help him. Actually, it only seemed to make things even worse, since Tom tightened his grip around Castiel's throat even more because of it.

“I’m really tempted to just kill you now, honestly,” Tom continued, “My dear sister’s not here to stop me, and she left you alone with me, anyway, so in the end, it would be _her_ fault. Come to think of it, I would actually be doing you a _favor_.”

Tom leaned in close, a smirk spreading on his lips. “And anyway, I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy it. I would really _love_ to just—”

Something hit Tom in the back of the head—something made out of metal this time, but that had nearly the exact same effect as the wooden plank had, because it only seemed to annoy Tom. He didn’t seem hurt or disoriented by it at all, and he turned around quickly to face his attacker, finally releasing Castiel’s throat.

Castiel gasped, raising his hands again to touch his certainly bruised throat, but even as he panted and wheezed and coughed, struggling to pull enough air into his lungs, he still forced himself to lift his head and watch the scene before him unfold, still forced himself to focus on what was happening right in front of him.

“Leave him alone!” Ava was holding a crowbar in her hands, her eyes wide and frantic, her breathing a little heavy. Castiel hadn’t realized she’d woken up. “Let us go, you sick bastard!”

“You annoying little  _bitch,”_ Tom growled, holding the crowbar effortlessly when Ava tried to hit him with it again, grabbing it in the air and easily stilling its movement. He ripped the makeshift weapon from the girl’s grasp and threw it across the room, letting it clatter loudly against the floor before swinging his hand through the air and hitting Ava _hard_ across the face. She yelped, bringing her hands up to her face and stumbling with the force of the blow.

Without a thought, even if he still felt a little disoriented and his breathing hadn’t yet returned to normal, Castiel crossed the room quickly and jumped on Tom’s back, wrapping his arms around the other man’s neck, hoping to pull him away from Ava. But Tom was way too strong, and he freed himself from Castiel’s arms far too easily, spinning around quickly and punching the other man’s chest with impressive force, knocking all the air right out of Castiel’s lungs and making him fall to the floor, gasping and wheezing just like before. The pain that bloomed in his sternum was insistent, almost unbearable, and he wondered if Tom had fractured it somehow.

When he looked back up, Tom had reached Ava again, grabbing the front of her shirt before she could try to move away from him, and with a quick, swift movement, he pretty much  _tossed_ her across the room. She hit a shelf, staining the metal in red, and when she fell to the floor, there was a thin train of blood painting her skin, flowing out of the brand new wound on head.

She didn’t move again after that.

Castiel moved quickly again, while Tom was still distracted as he took in the sight of Ava on the floor—probably wondering if she was still alive. Without allowing himself to think too much about it, ignoring the awful pain coming from his head and chest, Castiel jumped to his feet, then dug his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out the sharp metal tool he’d found on his first day in that room—which _really_ seemed to be some sort of weird, pointy screwdriver now that he could actually see it—and taking the couple of steps that separated him from Tom as fast as he could, without a beat of hesitation.

Tom turned around quickly, but apparently he hadn’t been all that worried about what Castiel intended to do, because he didn’t immediately try to defend himself, and that’s what allowed Castiel to do what he did. He wasn’t sure how he did it, really—how he found the _strength_ within him to do it—but somehow, he did it.

He drove the sharp, metal body of the tool right into Tom’s neck.

Tom gasped, his eyes wide and shocked, blood pouring out of his mouth as he brought his hands up to try and grip at the tool, just as his knees buckled under his weight and he collapsed to the floor by Castiel’s feet.

Castiel’s heart was racing, ringing loudly in his ears. During the seconds that followed, all he was able to do was just stand there, adrenaline coursing through his veins, clouding up his mind. Later on, he knew he would need to think about this, about the fact that he had probably just _killed_ someone. He knew that moment right there would replay in his mind over and over again, that it would haunt him for several years to come, that he would stay up at night just remembering it, tossing and turning in bed as the guilt gnawed at his nerves, even if he’d only done it in self-defense, even if he hadn’t exactly had a choice here.

But right now, he couldn’t think about that, about the implications of it, not even if he tried.

He glanced over at Ava, then at Tom, then at the door, feeling dread pooling into his gut when he realized that maybe Meg was still around, that maybe she hadn’t left yet, or maybe she’d changed her mind about going out at all and was about to come back in here to figure out what was going on, only to find _this_ scene waiting for her. She definitely wouldn’t be happy about it.

That thought seemed to be enough to snap Castiel out of the trance he’d found himself in, and he was just about to step forward and walk over to Ava, planning to pick her up and carry her out of here, to get them both to safety as fast as he possibly could, when he realized that Tom was actually still alive. In fact, the man had somehow gripped the metal tool with his hands and was currently trying to pull it out, and much to Castiel’s shock, he was actually _succeeding,_ actually pulling the long, metal body of the tool out of his flesh. And he seemed entirely coherent while doing it, too, his angry eyes fixated on Castiel, sharp and alert and actually freaking _lucid,_ like he wasn’t even in pain anymore, which made Castiel’s stomach sink down to his feet, because how was that even _possible?_

Maybe that wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Maybe he wasn’t… maybe he wouldn’t…

Without another thought, before he could truly process what he was doing, Castiel did the only thing he _could_ do in that moment, the only way he could think of to save himself.

He ran.

Once again, he acted completely on instinct, letting his feet carry him out of that room without a single thought. He desperately pushed the metal door closed behind him, scrambling a bit as he did it and hastily locking it in hopes of slowing Tom down somehow, before taking off again, stumbling through what appeared to be a big, old warehouse as he desperately looked for an exit. His heart was hammering painfully against his ribcage by then, sounding loud and frantic in his ears, and his breathing was ragged, heavy and wheezy, making his airways burn uncomfortably as he ran. His steps sounded far too loud inside that big, open building, but he didn’t let that slow him down.

It took him a while to find an exit, but when he finally stepped through a door and out into the cold night air outside, he nearly cried with relief.

But he didn’t stop there, of course—he didn’t linger to see if Meg was really still around or if Tom was truly still alive and had somehow managed to get out of that room. No, once he was out of that building, Castiel kept running as fast as he could, racing down the worn dirt path he came across at the front of the warehouse until he finally reached what appeared to be a main road, flanked by a thick mass of trees on both sides, which told him he was very, _very_ far from home.

Throughout the past few days, while he’d been overwhelmed by that excruciating pain, completely blind and deaf to the world around him, he’d pretty much screamed himself hoarse, feebly holding on to a tiny shred of hope that maybe someone might hear his desperate pleas, that someone— _anyone_ would come and _help_ him.

But that didn’t happen, and now Castiel understood why. Apparently, Meg and Tom brought their victims to a pretty isolated place—an old, abandoned warehouse in the middle of freaking nowhere, clearly outside of town, with not a single living soul to be found nearby. He didn’t even know if he was still in Illinois.

However, he didn’t let that realization stop him, didn’t let himself lose hope. He continued to run alongside the road for what felt like hours, panting and heaving in the dark, his head spinning and his entire body trembling as his heart continued to beat worryingly fast inside his chest. His ribcage still hurt a lot because of the punch Tom had landed onto his sternum, making it pretty hard to breathe, but Castiel didn’t let that stop him, either.

And as he ran, he felt guilt pooling into his gut at the thought of Ava, of how he’d just left her there, how he’d simply _abandoned_ her in that room with Tom, because what if she was still _alive?_ Castiel had simply left her behind, even if she was the reason why he’d even managed to escape in the first place, the reason why he was still _alive_. Fuck, he owed her his freaking _life,_ and he’d just _left her there._

Anger quickly battled that feeling, though, as thoughts of Jimmy and Amelia slipped into the forefront of his mind, as he thought of how Meg had most likely been the one to kill Amelia in her own home, leaving her body behind of her _daughter_ to find. And Jimmy, his loving, warm, _caring_ brother, such a gentle soul, who’d gone through a similar Hell to the one Castiel had just been put through, who'd also  _suffered_ at the hands of those two _psychos_.

But unlike Castiel, his brother hadn’t been able to get away. No, Jimmy had _died_ back there in that room, in pain, burning and freezing alive, afraid and confused and scared and most likely screaming for help, but no one had come either. No one had _helped_ him, and at some point, his heart had simply given out, and he’d just laid there on the cold floor, alone and lifeless, with no one to cry over his death, no one to _mourn_ him.

What had Meg and Tom done with his body? Had they even buried Jimmy, or just left him in the woods so that the animals could take care of the rest? Was there even any part of him left at this point?

Castiel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides at that last thought, and he had to fight back tears.

It didn’t take long for panic to start boiling up within him again, though, because he had no idea where he was. He’d been walking for _hours,_ and he hadn’t yet found a property, a house, a car, a _person_ that could help him. All he could see was the empty road ahead and the endless mass of tress that made up the forest that apparently surrounded him in all freaking directions. He didn’t have any way to call for help, and what if Meg somehow tracked him down? What if she found him here and took him back to that place? He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ let that happen, and that meant that he had to keep walking, had to keep moving, but that was getting harder by the minute, with his head spinning and his chest hurting and _fuck_ , he couldn’t fucking _breathe—_

Light washed over him, far too strong and bright—the headlights of a car, Castiel guessed. He squinted, feeling his head pound as he turned around to find the source of all that light, lifting his right hand in front of his face in an attempt to block some of that brightness. He stumbled a bit when his balance wavered without a warning, then pressed a hand against a tree trunk to his left when his head started spinning dangerously, feeling the bark solid and rough beneath his palm.

The car pulled over onto the side of the road slowly, coming to a stop right next to him.

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

A voice, loud and completely unfamiliar, came from right beside him—probably from inside the car, he reasoned. Castiel closed his eyes, pulling in a few deep breaths before he finally managed to make himself lift his head to find the owner of that voice.

The car was actually a big silver pickup truck, and a woman was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at him through her rolled down passenger window with confused eyes and a heavy frown in her brows. His eyes weren’t focusing right, so he couldn’t see her features all that clearly—all he could really make out was her pale skin, dark eyes and golden hair, but even so, she didn’t seem familiar at all. He was fairly certain that he’d never seen her before in his life, and that thought comforted him greatly.

She wasn’t Meg. She _wasn’t_ Meg. That was good. It meant he was safe. He was _safe._

Or was he?

Castiel shook his head weakly. “No, I…” He swallowed, swaying a bit on his feet. “I think I need to go to a hospital.” He wasn’t sure what was happening to him, why he suddenly didn’t seem able to even stand properly anymore, but whatever this meant, it just couldn’t be good. Maybe it had something to do with whatever Meg had injected him with, he reasoned, or maybe it was the head wound from when he’d hit it against the wall after Tom pushed him. Or maybe he was just having a panic attack—he really couldn’t tell. Either way, he was pretty sure he should go to a hospital.

“What _happened_ to you?” the woman asked, her voice rising in volume, sounding a bit exasperated.

Castiel swallowed drily. “Kidnapped,” he breathed out, voice coming out croaky and hoarse, like he hadn’t drunk water in days—which, he suddenly realized, was actually the case here. Seriously, how the hell was he even still _alive?_ “I got away somehow, but… hit my head. Everything’s kind of blurry.” Why did his head suddenly feel so heavy? And why was everything spinning like this? He hadn't been feeling like this before, so why _now?_

“You were _kidnapped?”_ the woman’s voice rose in pitch _and_ volume this time, her words filled with shock and disbelief.

All Castiel managed to do was nod in response.

The car’s engine didn’t stop running, but Castiel was pretty sure he heard a door opening and closing, and then there were gentle hands gripping his arms, trying to move him, and he had no strength left in him to fight them. He felt himself being carefully herded toward the car, then being pushed inside the vehicle gently, and he had no say in any of it. He didn’t care about it all that much, though, because soon enough he was lying down on the backseat of the car, and he was just relieved that he could finally close his eyes and rest for a bit.

Maybe he drifted off for a while, or maybe he was just too out of it to really keep track of time, but far too soon there were hands touching him again, pulling at him and making him move, and he wanted them to stop and just leave him alone, but he couldn’t quite find the strength to bat them away, or even to _tell_ them to go away. All he found himself able to do was blink dumbly at the blurry shapes dancing in front of his eyes, his vision too out of focus for him to actually see anything clearly, to _understand_ what was happening. Various voices reached his ears, but they sounded weird, words muffled and unintelligible, like they were coming from far away, like they were nothing more than meaningless noise, and eventually Castiel decided that trying to understand what those voices were saying just wasn’t worth the effort.

None of this was.

So he just closed his eyes, and let the darkness engulf him.

***~*~*~*~***

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

The beeping was constant, soft and gentle like a background noise, and even though it sounded just a bit too loud as it reached his ears, it was still very familiar—calming, even. Castiel had spent several years of his life listening to it by now, paying careful attention to that sound, cautiously analyzing its patterns, making sure that whatever patient it belonged to was okay, checking on them as often as possible while he did everything he could to bring them back to full health.

What he wasn’t used to, however, was being on _this_ end of it.

Castiel blinked his eyes open slowly, wincing when he realized that the room around him was way too bright. Sunlight poured freely into it, coming in through the window without issues since the curtains were fully drawn, but no matter how much his eyes hurt in that moment, he still held his breath at the sight of all that _brightness_.

That was the first time he was seeing sunlight in _days._

His eyes stung sharply, watering because of that strong, unfiltered light, but he forced them to stay open so that he could examine the room around him, his survival instincts still very much present in his mind, still controlling his actions and making him fully alert almost as soon as he was awake. He suddenly felt the need to make sure that he really was safe, that he truly was where he thought he was, and that Meg and Tom weren’t there with him, that they truly were nowhere to be found.

It didn’t take him long to notice that there were two other people with him in that hospital room, and the beeping of his heart monitor grew a little faster when he caught sight of them, but he let out a breath of relief as soon as it registered in his mind exactly _who_ they were, and his heartbeat slowed back down to a normal rhythm not too long after.

Gabriel jumped to his feet as soon as their eyes met, pushing his chair backwards in his haste, his eyes wide as he crossed the small hospital room in two big strides, quickly making his way over to the bed where Castiel was currently lying. On the chair beside his, Jack grumbled, stirring as he was apparently startled awake by his uncle’s abrupt movement.

“For fuck’s sake, Cassie,” Gabriel breathed out, gripping at the blanket currently draped over Castiel’s body, crumpling it in his fists, “Do not _ever_ scare me like that again. Fuck.” He reached up with trembling hands, fumbling for the nurse call button. “I was worried out of my freaking _mind._ You were gone for _days,_ and now you’re… you’re…” He gestured wildly with his hands, like he couldn’t quite put all the thoughts currently running through his head into words, but still hoped that he could somehow convey them by erratically waving his hands through the air like he was having a seizure.

That certainly wasn't a very effective way to communicate, but Castiel understood what Gabriel meant to say all the same. It really wasn’t that hard to figure it out.

“And the people here won’t tell us _anything,_ ” Gabriel continued his rant, “They say they don’t know anything for sure, but how can’t they? For fuck’s sake, they’re _doctors._ That’s their _job._ How can they not have a clue what happened to you? And they didn’t even want us to—”

Whatever Gabriel had been about to say died in his throat when Jack suddenly appeared right beside him and pushed him aside, leaning forward quickly so that he could wrap his arms around Castiel—awkwardly, of course, since his father was still lying on the bed, so the angle wasn’t all that great, but that didn’t matter.

Castiel let out a shaky breath, feeling his eyes burning for an entirely different reason this time. He raised his arms—carefully, because there were several wires and an IV drip attached to him—so he could return his son’s hug.

“I’m okay,” he whispered into Jack’s brown hair. “I’m okay, Jack. I’m fine.”

“I thought you were gone,” Jack whispered into the side of Castiel’s neck. The way Jack’s voice shook and failed at nearly every single word truly broke Castiel’s heart. “You vanished, just like Uncle Jimmy, and I thought… I thought you were...”

Castiel felt his throat close up at the mention of Jimmy, because he truly _had_ vanished just like his brother. He’d been taken to the _exact_ same place where Jimmy had died, by the _exact_ same people.

But of course, he didn’t share any of that out loud—maybe later, he decided. He didn’t think he could actually talk about that now, even if his family definitely deserved to know the truth about what’d really happened to Jimmy.

But this whole nightmare was still far too fresh in Castiel’s mind, and it still hurt too much to just think about it. He definitely wasn’t ready for that conversation—not yet.

“I’m here now,” he whispered instead, lifting a hand so that he could card it soothingly through his son’s soft hair. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere—I promise. I’m okay.”

He met his brother’s gaze over Jack’s head, and found Gabriel’s eyes shining with unshed tears, a sight so rare and devastating that Castiel felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.

“Dr. Novak.”

Jack pulled away from his father at the sound of a new voice, and all eyes in the room moved to find a nurse standing by the door, holding a clipboard and a pen in her hands—Tessa, more specifically.

“It’s a relief to see you awake,” she said with a small smile playing on her lips. It didn’t seem entirely sincere, but Castiel wasn’t too surprised by that—they’d never really gotten along. “We were all pretty worried. You weren’t—”

Without a warning, Hannah burst into the room, all but pushing Tessa aside and marching over to the bed, a determined look in her blue eyes.

“It’s okay, Tessa,” she threw the words over her shoulder, not even glancing at the nurse as she walked past her, “I can take it from here.”

“But, Dr. Johnson, shouldn’t I be the one to—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Hannah snapped, turning briefly to glare at Tessa, before holding one of her hands out—probably in a silent request for the nurse to hand over the clipboard. “Now go. You’re probably needed elsewhere, aren’t you? I’m sure I can find you something to do if you’re not.”

A tense silence took over the room for a moment, with a pretty intense staring contest taking place between Hannah and Tessa, until the nurse finally relented. She let out an angry sigh, shoved the clipboard into Hannah’s waiting hand, then spun on her heel and exited the room without another word.

Hannah and Tessa had never really gotten along either, but Castiel had to admit that he was a little surprised by that exchange. Neither of them had ever been so openly rude or made their dislike for each other quite so obvious before. He wondered if maybe something had happened between the two while he’d been gone, if this was the result of an argument he wasn’t aware of, or if Hannah was just too stressed and her patience was wearing dangerously thin. He had no idea.

Gabriel whistled lowly. “Well, that was… _interesting.”_

Hannah completely ignored him, turning to look at Castiel.

“What _happened_ to you?” she demanded as she moved to check his vitals, “You were gone for _days_ , Castiel! And then some _random_ woman shows up here with you unconscious in her car, claiming that she found you on the side of the road and that you told her you were _kidnapped?”_ She shook her head, her grip around the clipboard in her hand growing so tight that Castiel could see her knuckles turn white. “Where _were_ you?”

Castiel swallowed drily, pulling in a breath. He knew there was no running from it now. He had to talk about it, as much as he wished he didn’t, as much as he wished he could just _forget_.

So before he could think too much about it, before his resolve could fade, he just blurted everything out.

“She wasn’t lying. I was… I _was_ kidnapped. They kept me in a… warehouse, outside of town, I think. I got away somehow, and I… I was wandering alongside the road when a car pulled over. I think I passed out after that woman got me in her car, though, because I don’t remember anything that happened after it.”

Hannah’s entire expression hardened, growing darker with every word that left Castiel’s mouth. Jack closed his eyes and spun around, running a hand through his hair, like he was having trouble wrapping his head around that story, like he wasn’t sure how to react to it. Gabriel shifted his weight on his feet, looking down, his jaw clenching, but he didn’t say anything.

“Your car… the alarm was going off, that night you… you left early,” Hannah provided, her voice sounding far too small and weak. Castiel had never heard her sound like that, and it made his chest feel a bit heavier. “Your keys were on the ground right beside it, and the metal on the side of the car was _bent,_ but you hadn’t told me or anyone about being in an accident, and the cameras out in the parking lot just stopped working that night for some reason, so no one knew what’d _happened.”_

Briefly, Castiel wondered if Meg had had something to do with the malfunction of the security cameras. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

Castiel licked his dry lips, leaning back against his pillows as he tried to choose his next words, as he tried to organize his thoughts. He didn’t look at any of them in the eye when he spoke again, instead choosing to bow his head and fixate his gaze on the blanket currently pooled around his waist. “When I left that night, I… there was someone waiting for me in the parking lot. The…” He swallowed, then closed his eyes and took in another deep breath. In the background, his heart monitor spiked again. “The people who took me, they’re… they’re the same people who took Jimmy.”

A pregnant pause followed, the air inside that room so heavy it might as well have actually grown thicker after those words were out of his mouth, and when Castiel looked up, he found three pairs of wide, surprised eyes staring at him intensely, waiting for more, begging him to elaborate, to _explain._

But he couldn’t do that. The words died in his throat before he could even try to let them out, his voice nowhere to be found. He let his gaze fall to his blanket one more time as he took in yet another breath, then swallowed drily as he let his eyes slip closed again.

“Cassie…” Gabriel’s voice sounded choked, so weak and hesitant that it didn’t even sound like his brother at all.

For some reason, Gabriel didn’t finish whatever he’d been about to say, so Jack apparently took it upon himself to ask the question that was currently hanging in the air, silently hovering over their heads, suffocating the four of them, like a weight that had at some point been placed over their chests, right on top of their hearts.

“Dad,” the boy whispered, sounding just as hesitant as his uncle had, as though he feared whatever he might hear in response, “Is Uncle Jimmy…?”

Castiel couldn’t bring himself to lift his head and look at them again, couldn’t for the life of him make himself meet their eyes.

But he knew he had to. This hurt—it hurt _a lot,_ like someone had reached into his chest and actually pulled his freaking heart out—but he knew he had to do this. They needed to know. His family _deserved_ to know, so he would just have to push his own issues aside for now. He had to stop being so selfish and just forget about himself for a little while so he could tell them the truth.

He owed Jimmy as much.

That last thought was probably the only reason why he somehow found the strength to push his next words out of his mouth.

“Is anyone else here?” he asked, keeping his head lowered for a moment, though he made himself look up when several seconds passed and he didn’t get a response. Jack, Gabriel and Hannah were still watching him with wide, worried eyes, but identical frowns had at some point settled into their brows. “From our family, I mean,” he clarified, directing his question at Gabriel and Jack. “Is there anyone else here in this hospital?”

Gabriel was the first one to snap out of it and give Castiel an answer.

“Yeah, uh…” He cleared his throat, blinking a few times, before he finally nodded. “Everyone’s here, actually—our parents, Michael, Anna and Claire. They’re all around here somewhere, either eating or sleeping, I’m guessing. They wouldn’t…” He sent Hannah a quick glance, before focusing his honey-colored eyes back on Castiel. “They wouldn’t let more than two people come in here at a time.”

Castiel nodded slowly. He knew the hospital policy all too well, but he also didn’t care much for it at the moment.

“Can you bring everyone here?” he asked, fixating his gaze on Hannah. “I need to… talk to them—all of them. I gotta tell them everything. They also deserve to hear this, and I want everyone to hear it from me.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to respond, but he didn’t actually get the chance to let even a single word out.

“No.”

All eyes moved to stare at Hannah, who stared right back with a very determined look on her face, her shoulders far too stiff and her chin held high.

Castiel held back a sigh. He had seen this coming, of course—she was just following the hospital rules, and he’d expected no less from her—but that didn’t mean that he didn’t feel annoyed by it.

“Hannah, I’m fine. I can—”

“No, you’re not _fine,_ Castiel,” Hannah retorted sharply, shaking her head at him in disbelief, as though she was scolding a particularly stubborn child. “Honestly, you’re the very _opposite_ of fine at the moment. I only let these two in,” She gestured briefly at Gabriel and Jack with a sharp wave of her hand, “Because they wanted to be here when you woke up, and they literally wouldn’t stop nagging me about it. This was an _exception,_ and now that you’re awake _,_ I actually need them to leave.” She turned to give the pair a pointed look as she said that last part, probably to get her point across.

Jack frowned at her. “But I don’t want to—”

“It’s okay, Jack,” Gabriel hurried to rest a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly when the boy gave him an incredulous look. “It’s fine. We get it. We’ll leave.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the scene, because that definitely didn’t sound like his brother at all. Gabriel had _never_ cared for rules. Normally, he actually made every effort to _break_ them as often as he possibly could.

Gabriel seemed to realize where exactly Castiel’s head was at, because he sighed, his shoulders sagging at his sides. It was only in that moment that Castiel realized just how _tired_ his brother looked. “It’s okay, Cassie. We just wanted to be here when you woke up, to make sure you’re really fine. But now, you… you need to rest, and all the doctors here don’t need us getting in the way while they fuss over you and do their doctor thing. I just… I was worried, and Jack here was too.”

Castiel still didn’t want them to leave, so he shook his head weakly, ready to argue. “Gabriel—”

“Cassie, we were all scared for _days._ You were _gone,_ and we thought…” Gabriel shook his head when his voice failed, flinching at whatever thought crossed his mind, though he snapped out of it soon enough. “Honestly, we thought the worst. And while we were so incredibly _relieved_ when Anna got that call from this hospital, we were also _terrified._ They didn’t know what to tell us—what had happened to you, if you were okay, if you were even gonna _make it_. They didn’t know _anything,_ and they still don’t.” He threw yet another quick glance over at Hannah, before fixing his eyes back on Castiel. “I just… if the doctors say we can’t be here—that _no one else_ can be here, then I can’t take that risk, Cassie. I just can’t.”

Gabriel’s speech set a heavy, uncomfortable weight over Castiel’s heart, because it sent him right back to a month ago when Jimmy disappeared. This Gabriel right here was just too similar to the Gabriel from back then, from when they’d first heard the news, from the first few sleepless nights of waiting and hoping and _worrying,_ and Castiel hated that he was the reason for it now, that he was bringing his family so much worry and stress when they’d already gone through so much in the past few weeks.

“We really don’t know anything for sure right now, Castiel,” Hannah added, her voice much softer than before, more gentle, “Not even the police are allowed to talk to you yet, because we don’t know what that might do to you, if… answering their questions and… _reliving_ what happened to you could stress you out too much. We really don’t know what that kind of stress could do to you right now, but based on what we _do_ know about your current state, we can tell that putting you through something like that really wouldn’t be advisable. And we still have so many tests to run, so many options to rule out. We just… you need to rest for a while. You really can’t push yourself too much right now. It could be dangerous. You’re _not_ okay, and we really can’t take any risks.”

From the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Jack flinch at that last part and Gabriel swallow drily, glancing down at his feet again.

Castiel sighed, closing his eyes. He wasn’t happy about this, not even in the slightest, but he understood where Hannah was coming from. He would be doing the same exact thing, were their situations reversed.

So in the end, he simply nodded, letting out a heavy, frustrated sigh, because he knew there was just no point in arguing with Hannah about this, especially not when Gabriel was actually on her side.

Gabriel and Jack said their goodbyes after that, assuring Castiel that they would tell their family he was awake, that they would make sure everyone got some rest, and that they would wait to talk to them about Jimmy. Gabriel also pointed out the bag he’d brought to keep all of Castiel’s things, including the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d been admitted into the hospital, his wallet, his toothbrush, toothpaste, hair comb and a couple of clean changes of clothes.

Castiel couldn’t even put into words how thankful he was for all of it.

When Gabriel and Jack were gone, Hannah turned to look at Castiel, her eyes suddenly more gentle, her posture less stiff. She almost looked relieved, like she’d been tense while the two had been here, but now that they’d left, she could finally breathe easily again.

“I couldn’t get your car back for you,” Hannah commented, “I tried, but the police are keeping it for now. They towed it the day after you disappeared, because it was evidence or something, and you’ve gotta be the one go down to the station and get it, so… sorry. I tried. I really did.”

Castiel nodded slowly, numbly. He couldn’t exactly find it in himself to worry about his _car_ right now, but he was still grateful for all that his friend had done for him—all that she was _still_ doing for him. It made him breathe a little easier, knowing that there was someone he trusted so much caring for him like that. “Thank you, Hannah.”

Hannah simply nodded back in response, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands, even though she didn’t seem to actually be reading anything off of it. She raised a hand, tucking a stray strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear—a gesture that Castiel knew meant she was nervous, or uncomfortable.

And Castiel had a feeling he knew why.

“Just tell me, Hannah,” he sighed, “What’s wrong with me? And please be honest. I need to know.”

Hannah glanced back up from her clipboard quickly, then swallowed drily, clearly hesitating to speak. There was a weird look in her eyes—unsettling, even. Castiel wasn’t sure what to make of it, couldn’t quite figure out what it meant exactly, but he certainly didn’t like it.

“I didn’t lie to your family,” she admitted, “We… we really don’t know what’s wrong with you, Castiel.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose up to his forehead. “What?”

Hannah shook her head, glancing back down at the clipboard. Her grip on it seemed a bit too tight again. “All your test results, they’re… well, to be frank, they’re a mess.”

Well, that didn’t sound good. “How much of a mess?” he asked.

Hannah swallowed visibly, hesitating for a moment before she finally started talking, “Well, when you got here, you were severely dehydrated, your sternum was cracked, you could barely breathe on your own, you had cardiac arrhythmia, a fever of 104°F, and your right shoulder was slightly dislocated. Also, you were presenting signs of severe blood loss, and your erythrocytes were so  _dangerously_ low, we had to give you a blood transfusion. However, your erythrocytes are getting lower by the hour again, and it’s happening so _fast,_ we don’t know what to do about it, or _why_ it's happening in the first place. Your blood pressure is a lot higher than it should be, and we can’t seem to get it down. Your potassium, calcium and glucose levels are way too high. There are too many platelets, too much oxygen and _way_ too much adrenaline in your blood. Also, your pupillary reflex is  _very_ abnormal—it's way too fast. And your shoulder and sternum? Completely healed, with no signs that there was even anything wrong with them in the first place, even though we did absolutely _nothing_ to treat them right away, since we were a bit preoccupied with everything else. When we went to take another look at them, everything was already fixed. Castiel, in all of my years as a doctor, I’ve _never_ seen anything like this.”

Castiel took a moment to process all that information, to spin every bit of it in his mind, just like he would do if he were trying to diagnose a patient. It was pretty difficult to distance himself from the situation, though—to pretend that this wasn’t happening to _him,_ to think about this like he was nothing more than a doctor simply doing his job, like he wasn’t so utterly _terrified_ because all of this was happening to _him,_ but he still tried.

“Give me that,” he said, raising a hand in the air to make the meaning behind his request even clearer.

For some reason, Hannah hesitated for a brief moment, but she relented in the end, stepping closer to the bed and handing Castiel her clipboard without another word.

Castiel let his eyes run over the letters both printed and written onto the pages before him, taking in all the information he could, and soon enough he realized that Hannah was right—his exams truly were a complete mess, with results unlike anything he’d ever seen before in his life. And the pieces didn’t quite fit together where they were supposed to, either. Not everything that seemed to be wrong with him actually made sense—he could see no way to connect them, no way to figure out what exactly his body was trying to do at the moment.

One particular result stood out to him, though.

“This can’t be right,” he pointed out, shaking his head weakly.

“Your leukocyte count?”

Castiel looked up at Hannah, surprised that she seemed to know exactly what he was referring to, even if he hadn’t actually said it out loud. “Yeah. These numbers can’t be right, Hannah. I don’t think it’s even _possible_ for a leukocyte count to get this high.”

“I didn’t either,” Hannah replied quickly, without a beat. “In fact, I found that count so _absurdly_ high that I had to ask our lab to repeat the test, but the results of the second test came with an even _higher_ number. But no matter how truly absurd those numbers are, they led us to believe that your body is fighting some sort of infection. And as it turns out, that does seem to be the case.”

Yeah, that definitely didn’t sound good. “What kind of infection?”

“That’s the thing—we don’t _know_. We really have no idea what we’re dealing with here. We don’t know if this is being caused by some sort of pathogen, or something else entirely. We’ve tried everything, but every test we’ve run to try to identify the cause of all this has come back negative. I don’t even know what to do _next._ ”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, to ask more questions, to inquire about what had been done to him so far and what _exactly_ they were giving him through that IV drip, when a memory suddenly slipped into his mind, and he froze, heart skipping a beat inside his chest.

Suddenly, he realized that he already knew _exactly_ what the cause of all this was.

“They gave me something,” he provided, his voice growing urgent, because maybe that fact might shed some light on his clinical condition; maybe that was the missing piece of the puzzle that Hannah needed to hear to be able to understand his test results and figure out how to proceed from here. Castiel wasn’t sure if it would help—his thoughts were far too chaotic and messy for him to draw his own conclusions about this—but he had to try. “An injection.”

Hannah’s eyes widened in alarm. “What?”

“I don’t know what it was,” Castiel replied, shaking his head, “I couldn’t see it all that well—it was… it was pretty dark in the room where they were keeping me. But I know it was something pretty thick, and dark, and after they gave me that injection, I… all I felt was  _pain_. I felt like I was burning and freezing to death all at once, and then the hours started going by, but the pain just wouldn’t _stop._ Apparently, that went on for _days_ , but even after it was all over and the pain was _finally_ gone, everything was… weird—still is. I don’t feel… _normal,_ so I don’t think the effects from that injection have completely worn off yet. That’s the only thing I can think of that could have caused all this.”

The worry that had already been pretty obvious in Hannah’s features seemed to grow even more intense with every new piece of information that she heard, but Castiel could tell that she was trying very hard to act professional about this. It took her a moment, but eventually, she finally managed to school her features back into a calm, neutral expression, straightening her shoulders a bit before she asked, “What are you feeling exactly, Castiel?”

Castiel shrugged weakly, shaking his head again. “Everything’s… too loud, and too bright. And I feel all this… _energy_ inside of me, like I just… like I could just get up from this bed right now and go for a run, just so I can do _something_ to spend it. But other than that, I… I feel fine.”

Hannah pursed her lips at that last part, and it couldn’t be more obvious that she very vehemently disagreed with him on that one, but apparently she chose not to correct him. Instead, she took in a breath, letting it out slowly as her shoulders drooped a bit at her sides. Suddenly, she looked tired. “We’ll need to run more tests. Nothing showed up before—no trace of any kind of suspicious substance in your blood—but now we’ll need to look more thoroughly. We need to figure out what they gave you, so we can counter it somehow.”

She held out her hand, an urgent look in her eyes, and Castiel returned her clipboard without a fight. As soon as she was holding it in her hands again, she started writing on it, probably making notes so she wouldn’t forget anything.

The only sound that filled the air during the seconds that followed was the one from Hannah’s furious writing. Castiel swallowed once, twice, one thought lingering in the back of his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull, nagging at him until he actually let it out. He didn’t _want_ to say it out loud—he wasn't even sure that he _could_ say it, really—but he knew he had to. Hannah needed to know, so she and all the other doctors knew exactly what they were dealing with here.

“There’s something else,” he whispered before he could change his mind about it. His voice came out far too hoarse and weak, though he wasn’t exactly surprised by it.

Hannah’s hand stilled immediately, as soon as those words were out of Castiel’s mouth, and she looked back up at him quickly, a serious look in her eyes. “What is it?” she asked, her worry audible amongst those three words.

Castiel pressed his lips together tightly for a moment, struggling to find the right words to say. “Whatever they gave me… it… it’s what killed Jimmy.” His throat closed up after he said that last part, but he didn’t let that stop him, forcing his next words out of his mouth before his resolve faded, before he changed his mind about sharing this particular piece of information with Hannah. “The woman who gave me the injection said that she would do to me _exactly_ what she did to him, only… Jimmy didn’t survive it. She said his heart just… gave out.”

Hannah’s face fell at those words, turning paler. She swallowed again, adjusting her grip around her pen, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded... off, far too low and hoarse. “Castiel, I’m so, _so_ sorry. I know you loved your brother very much.”

Castiel could only nod, feeling his eyes burn again. His heart weighed heavily inside his chest.

“When you…” Hannah paused, licking her lips, as though struggling to find the right words to say in that moment, before she tried again, “When you first got to this hospital, when I looked at you for the first time—all bruised and disheveled, lying unconscious on that bed, I wasn’t sure which one I was looking at—you or James. Sure, you were wearing the same clothes from the night you disappeared, but I just didn’t… I didn’t _know_ for sure, so even after they checked your driver’s license, I still had to make sure. And when I finally saw that scar on your arm, I felt so _relieved_ that it wasn't your brother—that it was _you_.But now, I… God, I feel _awful_ about it, knowing that James is… that he's really...”

Hannah didn’t seem able to finish that, so she simply let her voice trail off, shaking her head and glancing down at the floor right in front of her feet.

Castiel looked down at his arm, immediately finding the scar Hannah was talking about. He lifted a hand, tracing the discolored patch of skin on the inside of his forearm—one of the few things that distinguished him from Jimmy—carefully with the tips of his fingers, almost reverently.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about it,” he said truthfully, not looking up from his scar, “I don’t resent you for it, Hannah. I… I get it. And I know Jimmy would, too, if he were here.”

Another tense silence filled the air after those words left his mouth, this one so heavy it was almost suffocating, though fortunately it didn’t last too long.

Hannah cleared her throat just a few seconds later, and Castiel finally forced himself to look back up at her at the sound of it. Her eyes were sad, filled with something heavy, something ugly and awful, which let Castiel know just how much of a toll this whole situation was taking on his friend as well. This wasn’t easy for her either, and Castiel almost wanted to hug her, to try and make her feel better—he _would_ do just that, actually, if he didn’t feel so broken inside, if he weren’t in a desperate need of comfort himself.

“You get some rest, Castiel,” she whispered, “That’s the best thing you can do right now. I’ll take care of everything, and I’ll keep you updated, too, as soon as I have your newest test results.”

Castiel nodded weakly. “Thank you, Hannah.”

She gave him a final, solemn nod, before she turned on her heel, clearly headed for the door.

Just as Hannah was about to walk out of the room, however, a question jumped from Castiel’s lips before he could stop it, before he could really think it through.

“Is it lunchtime?”

Hannah paused, then turned around so she could give Castiel a confused look. She looked surprised by the question for a moment, like she really hadn’t expected to hear it, but she seemed to snap out of it quickly enough. “No, it… It’s 4PM.”

Castiel breathed in slowly, deeply, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things—and yep, there it was. A confused frown appeared in his brows. “I can smell food,” he pointed out, then added, almost like an afterthought, “I’m hungry. And thirsty.” He hadn’t been hungry before—or maybe he’d just been so freaked out and worried earlier that he hadn’t noticed it, but now he found that he couldn’t quite ignore that feeling any longer.

Hannah’s features softened just a little, and her eyes suddenly seemed a little warmer. “I’ll have them bring you something,” she said. “But for now, you rest, Castiel. No matter how agitated you feel, do _not_ get up from that bed. I mean it.”

Castiel nodded, feeling too tired to argue. “Thank you, Hannah,” he repeated, feeling like no matter how many times he said it, it still wasn’t enough.

With one last nod, Hannah turned around and left, walking quickly and leaving Castiel alone in that room for the first time.

Castiel let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding once he was alone, relaxing back against his pillows and closing his eyes.

He really wasn’t sure what he was feeling in that moment. This whole situation still felt way too surreal, like this was all some freaky, far-too-realistic nightmare, so maybe that was why he still felt so… out of it, why he didn’t feel like he was properly processing everything that was happening to him. His mind was a mess, his thoughts an overwhelming mixture of grief, fear, guilt, worry and confusion, and he wasn’t sure which one of those emotions he should be focusing on right now.

So he tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about his brother, or about all the pain that he would be putting his family through once he finally told them the truth about what happened to Jimmy, or about how worried Gabriel and Jack had seemed earlier, or how the rest of his family was probably in the same situation right now.

He tried not to think about Ava, about how he’d just left her there in that warehouse, about how he’d simply _abandoned_ her after she saved his freaking _life._ He tried not to wonder if she was dead, or about what would happen to her if she’d survived.

He tried not to think about Tom. Now, Castiel realized that he’d been so panicked back in that warehouse that he’d probably been a little delusional, which meant that he hadn’t actually _seen_ what he thought he’d seen. His mind must have been playing tricks on him, and he couldn’t really trust his memories from his escape. Now that he was here in this hospital, away from that place—and most importantly, away from Meg and Tom—he was finally rational enough to realize that Tom was probably dead by now, because Castiel had literally stabbed him in the _neck_. He had driven that metal tool right into one of Tom’s carotid arteries, and there was just _no freaking way_ that Tom could have survived a wound like that, especially not in a place like that warehouse—several miles away from the nearest hospital, with no one there to help him.

And _that_ meant that Castiel had actually _killed_ someone. Sure, Tom had kidnapped him—he'd outright threatened to _kill_  Castiel, even—so technically, it had been self-defense, but Castiel had still taken a _life._ That was _murder,_ no matter the circumstances, and Castiel had no idea how to deal with that, what to do about the weight that notion set over his chest.

He tried not to think about Meg, too. He tried not to think about the fact that she was probably coming for him, that she probably wanted some sort of revenge, considering Castiel had killed her _brother—_ and wasn’t _that_ terribly ironic. And if she ever found him, Castiel knew she certainly wouldn't be merciful or forgiving. If she truly was looking for him, she was probably coming to kill him—Castiel had no doubts about that.

And finally, he tried not to think about the fact that he could still die here, if the doctors failed to figure out what was wrong with him, if whatever Meg had injected him with managed to do what it was probably supposed to do. Whatever it was, it _had_ killed Jimmy—there was no denying that, no sugarcoating it. He was feeling fine now, but he knew he could relapse at any second, without any kind of prior warning, and the picture Hannah had described—the state he’d been in when he’d first arrived here at this hospital—definitely hadn’t sounded good. He wasn’t sure that the hospital staff would be able to stabilize him a second time if his health took another nosedive.

So Castiel simply tried not to _think_ , tried to keep his mind empty, tried to push away all those emotions, all that _fear,_ and much to his surprise, that was a lot easier to do than he’d expected once he started focusing on the smell of food that still lingered heavily in the air, coming from somewhere outside his room—probably another patient’s room, he figured. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly; he just knew that he really wanted it, whatever it was. For a moment, he actually considered getting up from that bed and going to look for the food himself, but Hannah's words came back to him before he could actually do it, echoing loudly inside his head and reminding him that he really shouldn't be pushing himself, that he shouldn't be wandering around that hospital when his state was so worrying and critical, so unstable and unpredictable. So in the end, he simply stayed where he was and waited for that apparently delicious food to be brought to his room for him.

But when a nurse finally brought him his late lunch—after another doctor had come to take a few more blood samples from him and very thoroughly checked all his vitals again, even if Hannah had literally _just_ done that—the food smelled… wrong. His meal consisted of white rice, beef, peas, corn, a fried egg, a glass of orange juice and lime jelly for dessert, which smelled _nothing_ like what he could _still_ smell coming from out in the hallway, and he was very disappointed about that, but he didn’t say anything to the nurse. He was hungry, and food was food, right?

Well, as it turned out, eating was definitely not a good idea. With every forkful that Castiel swallowed, the food grew more and more unappealing, so much that at some point, he actually started to feel nauseous. But he kept eating, kept shoving forkful after forkful into his mouth, because he knew he needed the nourishment. He hadn’t eaten anything in _days,_ and even if he currently had an IV drip giving him all the basic nutrients he needed, he still felt like he should eat a whole proper meal.

And then he threw up.

Fortunately, he moved fast enough, leaping from his bed in a jolt. He expertly ripped out the IV drip, then tore off all the wires that were connecting him to the machines, before running into the small bathroom in his room just in time to empty his stomach right into the toilet. Two nurses ran into the room soon enough, and then Hannah was there, giving sharp directions and barking orders at everyone else who showed up so see what was going on. Several hands started grabbing at him not too long after, nudging him, _guiding_ him, and Castiel went willingly once again, letting them lead him back into his room and lay him back down on his bed without a fight.

He felt awful after that, not to mention terribly exhausted, so when everyone was done fussing over him and asking him questions, Castiel asked one of the nurses to close the curtains in his room. It didn’t do much to darken the room, but he still closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come once he was finally alone. He was still hungry—seriously, he _just_ threw up. What the hell?—but he did his best to ignore that feeling. If he was sleeping, then he wouldn’t be hurting because of his brother, or fearing for his own life. He wouldn’t be thinking about all the stress that he was putting his family through, or about Ava and Tom and Meg. He wouldn’t have to try to sort through the confusing, overwhelming whirlwind of emotions that were currently battling inside of him and making his head spin.

And right now, that was all he wanted.

It was a lot harder than it should have been, and it took a lot longer than Castiel would have been happy with, but eventually, much to his relief, darkness finally took over, and he let unconsciousness engulf him without a fight.

***~*~*~*~***

When Castiel woke up again, it was dark outside. He could instantly tell, even before he glanced over at the window, because the lights in his room were on, and no sunlight seemed to be filtering into the room from under the closed curtains.

Oh, and he wasn’t alone.

He jumped a little when someone moved right beside his bed, and this time, he didn’t immediately relax once his eyes found his visitor, because what greeted him wasn’t a familiar face. In fact, he had no idea who this person was—he was pretty sure she wasn't a part of the hospital's staff, and even if she was new here, she was dressed in pretty casual attire, and not at all like a doctor or a nurse.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman hurried to apologize. She was standing right beside the bed, hovering uncomfortably close to Castiel for some reason the man just couldn't fathom. Her hair was orange, her eyes were light green, and she was holding a small notebook in a hand and a pen in the other. Castiel was certain he had never seen this woman before in his life. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I _did_ hope you would wake up soon, but I didn’t actually _try_ to wake you or anything.”

Castiel could only blink up at her for a moment, still feeling mildly disoriented, probably because he’d just woken up. “Who are you?” he finally asked, a couple of seconds later, “And how did you get in here?”

“Oh, I… I kinda had to sneak in.” She transferred her pen to her other hand so that she had a free one, before she reached into the pocket of her jacket. She produced what appeared to be a small wallet from it, but when she flipped it open, Castiel realized it was actually a police badge. “I’m Deputy Kelly, but you can call me April if you want. I’m not actually _supposed_ to be here, hence the civilian outfit and all.” She winked at him, giving him a small smile. “I had to go unnoticed, or else I’d never have gotten in here. The hospital staff _really_ doesn’t want anyone to come in here to talk to you.”

Castiel allowed himself to relax a little upon learning who exactly this woman was, but he was still confused. “Did you actually _sneak_ in here to get a statement from me? Is that even allowed?”

“Well, I’m not gonna lie—we’re kind of in a pickle here, Mr. Novak. We need to hear a story from you, and we need to hear it now, or else I won’t be able to keep a team here to look out for you, because we don’t know for sure if there’s still any danger to you or not. We don’t know anything for sure at this point. So far, it’s all been a guessing game, but now that you’re awake, we _need_ to hear your version of the story, so we know how to proceed from here.”

The thought of being here in this hospital, stuck in that room, completely unprotected, completely vulnerable and _helpless,_ sent a chill down Castiel's spine. Again, Meg was definitely still out there, and she was probably looking for him. The single thought of her finding him here was truly _terrifying._

So he found himself nodding, because this woman wasn’t asking too much of him, anyway. She just wanted to hear his version of the story—that was all. He could do that. He could tell her what happened, if it meant that they would keep him safe, that they would keep Meg away from him.

That was, if April didn’t want to arrest him for killing Tom instead of protecting him when he was done telling her everything.

Castiel nodded slowly, carefully. “Okay. I just… where do I start? I’ve never done anything like this before.”

April turned around, grabbing one of the chairs by the wall and bringing it closer to the bed. She sat down on it, settling into her seat and getting herself comfortable before she spoke again. “Well, you can start by telling me what happened the night you disappeared. Your friend Hannah—she told us that you weren’t feeling well, so you left early.”

Castiel nodded slowly again, swallowing drily. “Yes, I… I think you already know this, but my brother James, he… he disappeared about a month ago.”

April nodded, opening her notebook and placing it in her lap, pen ready in her hand.

“My niece Claire—James’ daughter—she’s… she’s been staying with me. However, adapting has been particularly difficult for her—understandably, of course—and… well, I haven’t been dealing with everything all that well, either.”

April simply nodded, glancing down at her notebook so she could write something down.

“That night—the night I… disappeared,” For some reason, it was hard for him to let that last word out, “I… I was feeling particularly gloomy. Some days are harder than others, and that particular day, I just wanted some peace and quiet, wanted to be left alone with my own thoughts. I haven’t been sleeping all that well, too, and I was just so terribly tired that day, I... I ended up leaving early, because I couldn’t work like that.” April gave him a small, understanding nod. Castiel wasn’t sure what to understand from the look in her eyes—they were far too sharp, like she was hanging on to every single word he said with unwavering focus. It was a little unsettling, but Castiel forced himself to keep going. “When I got to the parking lot, however, there was a woman waiting for me near my car.”

“A woman?” April echoed, perking up a bit in her seat. She adjusted her grip around the pen. “Can you describe her for me?”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah. She said her name was Meg. She had dark hair and dark brown eyes, and she wasn't terribly tall—average height, I think. She was wearing all black, and she looked… I don’t know how else to say this, but… she looked dangerous. There was just something about her that was… weirdly unsettling.”

April nodded, writing a few things down. “And what happened with her? Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah. She… she was waiting for me, it seemed like. She started talking to me—just small talk at first, but then things got… weird. She had my car keys. She said she got them from my locker, which is _in my office,_ so that already had all kinds of alarms ringing inside my head. But what really threw me off was when she started talking about my brother.”

“What did she say about him?” April sounded unnervingly calm, but Castiel reminded himself that this was her job, and she probably did this all the time, so he shouldn’t let that bother him. She was just being professional.

“That she knew him. That I seemed braver than him, and that she hoped I was more durable than he was.”

April pursed her lips at that. “Anything else?”

“Not that I remember,” he admitted, “She knocked me out right after that. The whole thing is still kind of a blur to me, really, and I still don’t understand how she moved so fast, but suddenly I was on the ground, and then… nothing. I think she hit me in the head with something.”

April nodded again. Something flashed in her eyes, though Castiel wasn’t sure what exactly that had been. Curiosity, maybe? It had looked like something else, but whatever it was, it was gone so fast that he didn’t get a chance to really examine it. “Do you know where she took you?”

“To some warehouse outside of town. There was someone else there with me, another prisoner—a woman named Ava. I don’t know her last name, but she said she was a secretary from Peoria. She said the same thing happened to her—Meg was waiting for her in the parking lot of her hotel, and she knocked Ava out as soon as she got the chance.”

April wrote down a few more notes, then asked, “Did you see Meg again while you were in that warehouse? Or anyone else?”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah, she was there. And there was a man there, too—Meg’s brother, apparently. His name was Tom.”

“And what happened there, exactly? You were gone for four days. Did they do anything to you before you escaped, or did they just keep you there?” She paused, like she’d just realized something, and a small frown appeared in her brows. “That’s what happened, right? You escaped?”

That last question had Castiel pausing. He felt another pang of guilt in his chest and a bitter taste in his mouth as he was suddenly reminded of Ava again, of how he was only here because of what she’d done, because she'd risked her own life to save him. But he hurried to push that feeling away, closing his eyes and pulling in a deep breath, before letting it out slowly as he forced himself to nod and open his eyes again. “Yes, I… I did. And I don’t know what they wanted with us exactly. They… we weren’t the only ones—the only victims, I mean. Meg said that they also took my brother a month ago, and that he… that he died there.” Castiel’s voice failed, and he pulled in another breath, trying to steady himself. “She said she’d do to me exactly what she did to him, but that she hoped I’d actually survive it, and then she… she gave me and Ava an injection each.”

April had been furiously writing in her notebook while Castiel had been talking, but her hand suddenly went still at that last part. Her green eyes seemed even sharper all of a sudden, her expression shifting into something more serious. “What did it look like? The substance inside the syringe, I mean.”

“It was dark, and it felt thick, but I couldn’t see it all that clearly. They were keeping us in some sort of... storage room, and the lighting was rather poor.”

April nodded, but the movement was tense now. She seemed to consider his words for a long moment, before she asked, “And what happened after they gave you the injection? How did you feel? Did it hurt?”

A spark of hope bloomed inside Castiel’s chest at those questions, because they sounded oddly specific. Maybe the police knew exactly what Meg had given him, or at least they might have dealt with something similar before. He knew that he and Ava hadn’t been Meg and Tom’s first victims, but maybe Jimmy hadn’t either. Maybe this whole thing was even bigger than Castiel had previously thought.

Maybe they knew how to save him.

He nodded, a lot more eagerly this time, more confidently, “Yes, it did. I… This might sound strange, but it hurt _so_ _much_ , I felt like I was burning and freezing to death, all at the same time. The pain was truly _awful,_ and it actually went on for _so long_ , I thought it would never end.”

April nodded again. Her grip around her pen tightened, though she didn’t write anything else down. “And now?”

Castiel shrugged. “I feel… weird, I guess. Everything’s too bright and too loud, and my blood tests are all wrong. And I’m hungry, but when I tried to eat earlier, I just puked everything back out. I don’t think I can keep anything down right now.”

April pursed her lips again. “And I’ve been informed that they gave you a blood transfusion when you got here. Is that correct?”

Castiel wasn’t sure why April’s voice suddenly sounded so somber, but he chose to ignore it. He nodded again, “Yes, they did.”

Slowly, April closed her notebook, shifting in her chair. She leaned a bit to the side and held out a hand, as though reaching for something, and when Castiel heard the telltale sound of a zipper running, he was led to assume that she must have brought a bag of some sort with her, which seemed to be resting on the floor right beside her chair. “Well, Mr. Novak, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Castiel felt his stomach sink down to the floor, and he swallowed drily. “What bad news?” he somehow managed to ask.

“I do know what’s wrong with you,” she said calmly, her hand still out of sight, probably hidden inside her bag as she put her notebook and pen away, or maybe she was looking for something in it. “However, I’m afraid your condition is irreversible. There’s nothing the doctors can do for you now.”

Castiel pulled in yet another breath, letting his eyes slip closed again. “Just tell me the truth. What did they give me?”

“Something terrible,” April replied, and Castiel heard her shifting in her seat again, but he still didn’t open his eyes. “They cursed you, Castiel, and I’m afraid there’s only one way to save you now.”

Castiel frowned, finally opening his eyes, a question ready on his tongue. “What—”

It happened too fast. He didn’t even think about it, really. He simply reacted, moving completely on instinct—well, actually, it was more like his body had pretty much reacted on its _own,_ and Castiel only processed what happened next _after_ it’d already happened.

Suddenly, Castiel was holding April’s wrist in his hand, keeping the freaking _machete_ she was holding away from his neck, its sharp edge hovering just about a foot above his throat.

“What are you _doing?”_ he asked, exasperated, his eyes wide with shock.

April didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even _think_ before she replied, “Killing you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

No matter what kind of shocking, truly _unbelievable_ situation Castiel might have found himself in in that moment, the sound of that voice still made him jump, sending a chill down his spine. April turned around quickly, pulling back her machete as she did it so that she could hold the weapon right in front of her body, and Castiel hurried to turn his head, glancing over at the door of his room, feeling his heart skip a beat inside his chest the moment his eyes found the scene that greeted him there.

The door was closed now, and just a couple of feet into the room, stood none other than Meg. She was holding Tessa in a headlock, her arms wrapped around the nurse’s neck from behind, keeping her still, exactly the same way she’d held Ava back in that warehouse. Tessa’s eyes were wide, flooded with fear, but she, too, didn’t seem able to break free from Meg’s hold.

“Now, let me tell you how this is gonna go,” Meg continued, sounding unnervingly calm, her sharp eyes fixed on April, “You’re gonna put that machete down so I can kill you without a fuss, and then Castiel and I can just go on our merry way. And that way, _this_ one,” She jerked Tessa once, and the nurse whimpered and flinched in the other woman's hold, like she was (understandably) expecting Meg to hurt her at any moment now, “Doesn’t need to die. How does that sound, velvet cake?”

April shifted her weight on her feet, adjusting her grip on her weapon. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”

Meg chuckled, that same unsettling smirk that Castiel had already seen way too many times by now quickly taking over her lips. She shrugged, “Fine by me. Can’t say I didn’t try.”

Without a warning, without a single second of hesitation, Meg let go of Tessa, swiftly lifting her arms so that she could grip the nurse’s head with both of her hands.

And then in one quick, seemingly effortless movement, she snapped Tessa’s neck.

The sound of Tessa’s neck breaking was something Castiel knew he would never forget. The loud, quick crack that signaled the precise moment of Tessa’s death would haunt him for several years to come, and after it was over, all he found himself able to do was watch as the nurse’s limp, lifeless body fell to the floor with a low thud, unresponsive and pliant like a rag doll.

But then Meg was moving, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and Castiel forced himself to tear his eyes away from Tessa’s body. He leaped from his bed without a second thought, tearing himself free from all the tubes and wires for the second time today and placing himself on the opposite side of the room from where April and Meg were, even if he knew that having a bed between them probably wouldn’t be enough to save him here.

A loud clank filled the room, startling him, and when Castiel tried to find the source of that sound, he realized that April had at some point dropped her machete to the floor—or maybe either April or Meg had thrown it for some reason, because it now lay close to Tessa’s body on the floor, several feet away from where the two women were.

Castiel allowed his gaze to linger on the weapon for just a second, wondering what his chances of getting to it were, before he focused his eyes back on April and Meg, who were now standing by the wall—actually, Meg was holding April against the wall by her  _throat,_ her hand curled tightly around the redhead’s neck while April clawed at the other woman’s arm, trying to break free, to absolutely no avail.

That scene was unnervingly similar to what Tom had done to him back in that warehouse, and the sight of it made Castiel freeze on his spot.

“What are you?” April asked, her voice coming out low and raspy.

Meg chuckled, shaking her head. “Hunters,” she all but sang, her tone mocking, teasing. It really didn’t sound like she was making any effort at all to keep April pinned like that. “I really don’t get you guys. I mean, what’s the point of all this? You wanna die and just don’t have the balls to do it yourselves, is that it?”

April all but spit out her next words, her voice sounding a lot stronger than Castiel would have expected it to. “No, we just want to rid this world of disgusting freaks like you. And trust me—it’s worth it.”

Meg chuckled again. “Oh, I doubt _that._ And you know why?” She leaned in, tightening her grip around April’s throat, and the redhead gasped, clearly struggling to breathe. Her skin started growing red at a truly alarming rate, the movements of her hands becoming more frantic, more desperate as she continued to claw at Meg’s skin, still trying to pull that hand away from her throat.

By that point, Castiel had finally snapped out of it and was able to move again, so he started taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the abandoned machete that still lay a few feet away from him on the floor.

“Because that breath you took just a second ago?” Meg continued, apparently completely oblivious to Castiel carefully moving across the room, “It was the last one you ever took.”

And as effortlessly as she’d done with Tessa, Meg grabbed April’s head and twisted it sharply to the side, breaking the woman’s neck quickly and without a single second of hesitation.

Castiel saw his chance, and he took it.

Once again, he didn’t even think about it—he acted completely on instinct, diving in for the machete and grabbing it in his fist, then quickly crossing the room toward Meg, hoping that somehow, by some _miracle,_ he would be able to move faster than her for once, that she would be distracted enough with killing April that she might react just one second too late, because that was all he needed.

And apparently, there was someone up there listening to his prayers, because this time, he _did_ move faster than her.

Maybe she also wasn’t too worried about him; maybe she hadn’t thought that he truly would try to do something to hurt her, just like Tom hadn’t, because she turned around rather slowly, calmly, like she wasn’t afraid of him at all, like she really wasn't worried about what he might try to do next.

And that was the only reason why he managed to bury that machete right into her chest.

Meg’s wide, surprised eyes found his as soon as it happened, and when Castiel felt her balance wavering as her legs buckled under her weight, he pushed her backwards so that she was pressed up against the wall, pinned against it just like April had been only a moment prior, because that way he could hold her up. He didn’t want her to fall to the floor just yet—no, he wanted her to look at him in the _eye_ right now.

“What did you do to me?!” he demanded, his voice coming out low and threatening, not to mention a lot stronger than he’d expected.

Even with a freaking _machete_ buried in her freaking _chest,_ Meg still laughed right in his face. “Oh, Clarence,” she all but sang, “You really have _no_ idea, don’t you?”

Castiel tightened his grip around the machete, before pushing it in a little deeper, hoping that would be enough to wipe that mocking smirk right off Meg’s face.

It didn’t—all that earned him was a tiny flinch, but the smirk still remained firmly in place.

“That injection you gave me,” he still tried, his voice a dangerous growl, the words coming out through his gritted teeth, “What was it?”

“A very unique, very special family recipe—well, kind of.” Meg tilted her head a bit, still looking very much amused. “Now _you_ tell me something, Clarence. Do you _really_ think you killed my brother? You feeling proud of yourself, thinking you finally avenged poor, sweet, helpless Jimmy?”

Castiel frowned. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Oh, no,” she chuckled again, “Tom is alive and well. He _just_ left town with your little friend, actually—Ava, right? We’ll catch up to them later, don’t worry.”

Castiel shook his head. “That’s not possible,” he replied quickly, confidently, because again, he’d driven that tool right into Tom’s _throat._ And Castiel was _doctor_ , so he knew for a fact that Tom should be dead right now. Meg was just playing with him; she had to be.

“Oh, it is. And you know why?” Meg’s smirk widened, a dangerous spark dancing in her eyes that had a chill running down Castiel’s spine. “Because Tom’s not human, and I’m not human either, so _this,”_ She glanced down at the machete, then back up at Castiel, another smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “Won’t kill me. I did like this jacket, though, so I’m a little mad, but I’ll live.”

For a moment, Castiel froze again, too shocked to really react to those words.

But he snapped out of it soon enough, and he found himself shaking his head, because no, that couldn’t be true. Meg was just trying to trick him here, playing games with his mind so she could distract him somehow. She had to be. There had to be some sort of… rational explanation to how unbelievably fast and strong Meg seemed to be, or to how she was still _talking_ while having a freaking _machete_ buried in her chest. There must be an explanation to all this that actually made _sense,_ and that didn’t sound so completely _insane._

“No,” Castiel said, “You’re lying.”

“Am I? Because it makes sense, doesn’t it? How we don’t die easy. How we’re a lot faster and stronger than you were. Of course, now…” She smiled again. “Well, now we’re even, aren’t we, Clarence?”

Castiel frowned again. “What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? That injection I gave you?” She paused, tilting her head even more to the side—all for dramatic effect, Castiel was sure. “I _turned_ you. You’re like me now. And you’re already making good use of that brand new speed and strength, aren’t you? I gotta say—this is really making my motor run, Clarence. You know how to make me all tingly in _all_ the right places. You really have a gift.”

Castiel was already shaking his head even before Meg was done talking, because _no,_ that couldn’t be true. That wasn’t _possible._ This sort of thing didn’t _happen,_ because it wasn’t _real._

“Still don’t believe me?” Meg asked, “Well, don’t worry—you will soon enough. Because when we get out of here, Clarence, I’ll make sure to show you exactly how _much_ you can do with your new—”

Whatever Meg had been about to say died in her throat, and what came out of her mouth instead was a pained shout as Castiel drove the machete even deeper into her chest—a lot more than he had earlier. And when he finally let go of her, something inside of him—something deep and primal that honestly scared him a little bit—felt very pleased when she slid down to the floor, too wounded to hold herself up on her own, her features contorted with pain.

And as he glanced around, as he took in the scene that surrounded him, letting his gaze find Tessa’s and April’s limp, lifeless forms lying on the floor, as well as Meg sitting against the wall with that machete still buried in her chest, Castiel became very much aware of one thing.

He had to get out of here.

He had no way to explain this, no way to get this whole thing to make any _sense._ He hadn’t actually done anything—or at least all that he’d done had had the sole purpose of saving himself—but he knew that to anyone who walked into this room right now, it sure as hell wouldn’t look like he was innocent here.

Also, Meg was right _there_ , still very obviously alive, and as ridiculous as her explanation had sounded, even if Castiel definitely didn’t believe her, he still wanted to get away from her, still wished to put as much distance between them as he possibly could, and he needed to that _now._ He couldn’t stop thinking about how easily she’d killed Tessa and April, or how _fast_ and _strong_ she was, or how she was even still _alive_ right now, and no matter how _absurd_ all of this seemed, if there was even a tiny _chance_ that she wasn’t lying and that she could actually survive that wound, then that meant that Castiel wasn’t safe here.

It meant he would never be safe again.

He couldn’t stay here. He had to get away from her, from this hospital—from _everything_ that was happening right now.

But _how?_ He couldn’t just call a freaking taxi or ask someone for a ride, not after what happened here—not to mention that he couldn’t get anyone else involved in this, especially not his family. And his car wasn’t even _here,_ too. So how could he…?

An idea slipped into his mind, and at first he didn’t allow himself to even consider it, shaking his head in shame and disgust, but then he glanced at Meg and found her raising her arms, wrapping her hands around the handle of the machete, clearly ready to try and pull it out of her chest, and suddenly Castiel realized that maybe he didn’t exactly have a choice here.

So he hurried to cross the room and kneel beside Tessa. He swallowed drily at the sight of her empty eyes staring back at him, but he just pulled in a breath and forced himself to move, lifting a trembling hand and placing it over her face, closing her eyes carefully as he silently apologized for what he was about to do, even if she was no longer here to see it.

And then he started searching through her pockets, checking every single one until he finally found the keys to her locker.

He scrambled to get back to his feet as soon as he was holding the keys in his hand, and then he was running over to the door, grabbing his bag on the way. He pulled the door open with one quick movement, and then left the room without a single glance behind.

“You’ll regret this, Castiel!” Meg’s voice followed him as he ran down the blessedly empty hallway, “You can run, but you can’t hide forever! I’ll find you, no matter how long it takes!”

Castiel completely ignored her, forcing his feet to keep moving as he quickly navigated the familiar hallways of the hospital. He ran into a few people as he went, doctors and nurses that worked with him every day, but when they tried to stop him and asked him what was going on, he told them he was fine and kept going, successfully dodging all the hands that tried to grab at him to make him stop, and fortunately no one actually followed him.

He also didn’t run into Hannah, which he was very much thankful for.

It didn’t take him long to find the staff room where all the nurses had lockers to keep their things. He was also immensely thankful that the room was empty, so he was able to just run up to the lockers and start trying out the locks, attempting to shove Tessa’s key into all the padlocks he came across until one of them snapped open.

And when that _finally_ happened, he ripped open Tessa’s locker and grabbed her bag, opening it hastily and rummaging through it quickly until he finally found her car keys.

Then he dropped her bag on the floor and took off running again.

He ran into three more people after that, even if he used the emergency stairs to get to the ground floor, but fortunately he managed to dodge every single one of them just like he’d done with the others—and _again_ , none of them were Hannah—and in just a matter of a few minutes, Castiel found himself running out the hospital back doors and across the darkened parking lot. The cold December air bit at his skin just like it had the night Meg took him, but he didn’t feel cold now, even if he was wearing nothing more than a thin hospital gown. No, he just… could tell it was cold, but he didn’t actually  _feel_ cold, which was all sorts of weird and he really didn’t want to think about the possible meaning behind it, so he just shoved that thought away.

Tessa’s Ford Focus wasn’t parked too far from the doors, so Castiel reached it less than a minute later, and he hurried to unlock it, slipping inside quickly and carelessly tossing his bag onto the passenger seat. He shoved the key into the ignition and turned it—too quickly, so the car failed to start at first, but he just cursed and tried again, until the engine finally, _finally_ roared to life.

So he shoved the car into gear and stepped down on the gas, quickly guiding the vehicle out of that parking lot and onto the street.

Before he knew it, he was driving out of town. He hadn’t truly thought about where he would go when he’d decided to leave the hospital, but his subconscious seemed to have made that decision for him, and he couldn’t exactly complain about it, because he knew that leaving town was probably the best thing he could do right now.

If Meg somehow survived that wound, Castiel knew that she would make good on that promise and come after him, and that meant that he needed to get her away from this town, away his _family_. And what best way to do that other than leaving town so she would follow him instead of sticking around to hurt someone _else_ he cared about? He would only be putting his family in danger if he stayed.

Not to mention that he really needed to figure some things out. He needed to distance himself from this whole situation, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that if he stayed in Pontiac. Someone would always be there—worrying about him, asking him questions that he didn’t know how to answer, _reminding_ him of what had happened to him. He needed space, and he knew that was the _one_ thing no one would be willing give him right now.

So even if he didn’t know where he was going, even if he had no idea what he would be doing next, even if he still didn’t understand what the hell had truly happened back there in that hospital, he still kept going, still did the _only_ thing he could think to do in that moment.

He stepped down on the gas, and left Pontiac far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed Warning **(with spoilers!)** : In this chapter, we see _some_ of Castiel's tragic backstory. We see how he was turned, and how he got away. Also, we learn about his family, and about how he lost his brother just about a month before everything happened—which is where the grief warning comes from. Some people die in this chapter, too—only minor characters, but still, two of them have pretty graphic death scenes. There's also a lot of graphic violence, though again, it's nothing beyond _Supernatural_ and _The Vampire Diaries_ levels.
> 
> -
> 
> Don't worry! We'll be seeing Castiel's family again _very_ soon. And they won't just appear in flashbacks. ;) ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, we'll be seeing a lot of flashbacks, but the last chapter was the only one that focused solely on Cas' past. The next few chapters will be made up of scenes from at least two differents times, so again, it's a good idea to pay attention to the years mentioned in each chapter. ;)
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains a few minor character deaths, as well as suicidal themes, which includes **a graphic suicide attempt by a Main Character**. I mean it, guys, that scene is **heavy.** However, it's probably not what you're thinking right now. If you need a more detailed warning **(with spoilers!)** about that scene, as well as instructions on how to skip that part if you don't want to read it, please check the end notes.

***~*~*~*~***

**2011**

***~*~*~*~***

Castiel drove all through the night, and then through most of the next day.

He still had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t let that slow him down—he _couldn’t_ allow himself to falter, to hesitate, to have second thoughts about leaving. He couldn’t go back to Pontiac anytime soon, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much it hurt to think about his family, about what he was putting them through by simply taking off without leaving so much as a note behind.

But he was doing this _for_ them—to keep them safe, to keep Meg away from the people he loved, and he kept that thought in the forefront of his mind as he sped down countless highways, holding on to it as tightly as he could, repeating it inside his head like a mantra whenever he felt his resolve wavering, whenever he as much as _considered_ turning that car around, whenever he caught himself questioning his decision to just take off in a hurry in the middle of the night.

He couldn’t even stop anywhere to pull out his phone and look at a freaking map so he could try to figure out where he was, since Meg had apparently taken his cell right out of his pocket while he’d been unconscious. However, he wasn't too worried about which direction he was going, about where whatever highway he found himself constantly speeding down would eventually lead him. He simply drove without pause, without stopping, even when the darkness of night gave place to the first few rays of sunlight, even when the sun emerged in the horizon, shining down innocently at him, bathing everything around him in its light, making the scenery that surrounded him look truly beautiful, painting the sky in a breathtaking shade of blue and making all the grass and tree leaves in sight seem greener than Castiel would have thought possible, as though there was absolutely nothing wrong in the world, as if Castiel’s life wasn’t currently upside down.

Part of him was _still_ hoping that maybe the effects of that injection would eventually fade, that at some point, whatever Meg had given him would work its way out of his system and he would just go back to normal, but as the hours passed and that didn’t happen, as his head continued to throb and his eyes kept stinging because of all that brightness, as everything still seemed far too loud to his ears and he became dizzier by the minute, Castiel’s hope began to wilt, crumbling to dust as he realized that maybe April had been right—maybe there really was no saving him.

 _“I’m afraid your situation is irreversible. There’s nothing the doctors can do for you now.”_ Her words kept coming back to him over and over again, playing in an endless loop inside his head. _“They cursed you, Castiel, and I’m afraid there’s only one way to save you now.”_

But he didn’t let the fear those words brought to him stop him either, as panicked as they made him feel, as scared as he was that he might still die.

He drove until the sun started dipping in the sky, until darkness fell to shroud the scenery around him once more, announcing the start of another night. By then, he was pretty much exhausted, the pain in his head was truly unbearable, he was feeling dangerously dizzy and his stomach had started cramping almost nonstop. It definitely wouldn’t be safe for him to keep driving like that, not to mention completely irresponsible, because if he crashed that car, he could very easily end up hurting someone else other than himself—or _worse—_ and he just couldn't allow that to happen. He couldn't even bear the thought of it.

So when he reached Casper, Wyoming, Castiel decided it was finally time to stop. He’d made a couple of quick stops on the way there to fill up on gas, but he’d never lingered too long in the same place. Whenever he stopped that car, the paranoia would settle in quickly, and he would find himself glancing over his shoulder almost constantly, afraid that someone might jump out on him at any second, that either Meg or Tom might have tracked him down somehow, that they could have followed him there and were just waiting for the right moment to pounce, to take him wherever they’d taken Ava and do whatever they’d planned to do with him when they’d kidnapped him in the first place.

The single thought of it was _terrifying._

Now, it wasn’t like Castiel actually believed that insane, completely ridiculous story that Meg had told him back at the hospital. He still thought that whole thing was utterly absurd, not to mention borderline impossible, and he had no plans of having his mind changed about that anytime soon.

But he was still scared, and confused, and his survival instincts were still running high, still controlling most of his actions, so he couldn’t exactly turn any of that paranoia off. Logically, he knew that Meg and Tom should both be dead right now, considering the gravity of their wounds—he was a _doctor_ , so he knew that for a _fact_ —but he still didn’t feel safe. He still felt like he needed to hide, like he needed to _run,_  and he really couldn't seem to ignore that feeling, to push it away, to convince himself that he didn't need to feel so panicked and vulnerable whenever he stopped that car.

But he also needed to get some rest, not to mention try to eat something that wouldn’t upset his oddly sensitive stomach and make him throw up his freaking intestines, so in the end, he had no choice but to stop in Casper and find himself a place to spend the night—a nice little motel that had pretty affordable rooms, which he could pay for with the cash he had in his wallet—at least for a few nights.

He should really go to an ATM, he thought, since he didn’t feel like he should be using any of his credit cards right now. He couldn’t risk giving his family a way to track him down. He really couldn't have them finding him here. It wouldn't be safe.

By the time he’d finally gotten himself settled in his motel room, he was so hungry he could barely even think straight, but since he didn’t have his phone with him, he asked the kind man at the motel’s front desk for tips on nearby restaurants, and then used the motel’s landline to order some food to be delivered right to his room.

However, just like when he’d tried it back in Pontiac, eating turned out to be an absolutely _awful_ idea.

His stomach lurched even more violently than it had the last time—and a lot faster, too. He barely had any time to make a run for his motel room’s bathroom, and he didn’t even get the chance to think about all the freaking bacteria he must be touching while he pushed open that door and bent his body over the toilet, gripping the porcelain seat in his hands before he emptied his stomach right into it.

But what came out of his mouth wasn’t just vomit—no, when it was all finally over about a minute later, the inside of the toilet was painted in dark red. Castiel felt his heart jump inside his chest at the sight of it, of all the blood currently coating the formerly white porcelain, staining it in a sickening shade of crimson. Worry and fear coiled in his gut right alongside the nausea, because this couldn’t be good. This couldn’t _possibly_ be good.

He stayed there for a long time, just sitting on the cold, tiled floor and panting over the toilet as his stomach continued to cramp, his heart beating wildly inside his chest and sounding far too loud in his ears, but fortunately no more blood came out of his mouth. The nausea was still going strong, though, and even after he’d calmed down, the feeling of it was still so insistent that he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat anything else for a while—probably for the rest of the night.

When he finally managed to drag himself back into the room and let himself fall onto the small, surprisingly comfortable motel bed, he felt even worse than before he’d tried to eat. There were new pains all over his body that he had no way to explain, his nausea just didn’t seem willing to go away, and he felt worryingly tired, like throwing up had spent the very last bit of energy he’d still had in him.

He knew he needed to figure this out, and that he needed to do it soon. He couldn’t just _not_ eat. He had to find something that wouldn’t upset his inexplicably angry stomach, something he could actually keep down. He couldn’t go on like this for much longer.

But there was nothing he could do about that now, not when his body felt so heavy and tired and his eyelids were already drooping over his eyes. He felt like every single muscle in his body ached, like he’d been stomped over by freaking elephant, so he definitely didn't feel like getting up from that bed anytime soon. He doubted he would have been able to do it, really, even if he actually wanted to.

He would do everything he could to figure out what was wrong with him, and then he would find a way to fix it. He _would_ do that eventually—he promised himself that he would, and that he wouldn’t stop until he succeeded. His life was literally on the line here, after all.

But right now, all his body wanted to do was get some rest, and he found that he didn’t have the energy to try to stay awake for much longer. And who knew? Maybe he would feel better after he got some sleep. It definitely couldn’t hurt, right?

So Castiel just laid there on that tiny motel bed, and when sleep finally came just a few minutes later, he slipped under without a fight.

***~*~*~*~***

When Castiel woke up again, he didn’t feel like he was truly awake. He felt like he was dreaming—no, he felt like he was _floating,_ not fully conscious and yet not sleeping either, like he was stuck in some kind of… in-between state, lingering at the very edge of consciousness.

His body felt awfully heavy, his head was pounding even more insistently than before, his stomach was hurting so much something might as well have ripped inside of him, and the room was spinning wildly around him, making him dizzy before he'd even lifted his head from the pillow.

However, as disoriented as he felt in that moment, one thing was still very clear to him—so clear that it was the only thing he could truly focus on as soon as he was awake again.

That _smell._

It lingered so strongly in the air, so heavily, it seemed to be the only thing that entered his lungs when he pulled in air. And it wasn’t anything new, either—no, it was… familiar, and weirdly alluring. It seemed to sing to him in a way nothing had ever done before, like it was  _calling_ to him somehow, like it’d awakened something that had been buried deep inside of him, something that had been asleep up until now, but that was now ready to go out and wander—and it was _ravenous_ _,_ too.

It was the exact same smell from that night at the hospital, back in Illinois; the same smell that had him considering going against Hannah’s orders and getting up from that bed; the same smell that had his mouth watering and his mind so focused on it that Castiel hadn’t been able to think about anything else at the time.

If there was anything that wouldn’t make him nauseous, anything he could eat without throwing up right after, it had to be _that—_ he was sure of it.

He moved before he even realized he was doing it, like his body had developed a mind of its own, and the next thing Castiel knew was that he was walking out of his room and into the cold night air outside without even bothering to lock the door behind him or grab his key.

He had no idea what time it was—how long had he been asleep for? He hadn’t even looked at a clock—but the streets were very much deserted, without a single living soul to be seen anywhere nearby, so he had a feeling it was way past midnight.

He could hear music, though—loud and a little obnoxious, which came accompanied by quite a lot of chatter and excited laughs that filled the air from time to time. He wasn’t sure where all that ruckus was coming from, but he found himself moving toward those sounds anyway, since that seemed to be the same direction that absolutely delicious smell was coming from. He had no idea where he was going, or if he would even be able to find his way back to the motel without his phone or anything else to guide him, but he couldn’t exactly find it in himself to care about that. No, right now, all that mattered to him was figuring out what the source of that delicious, mouthwatering smell was.

He walked two blocks before he saw it.

The building wasn’t too big, but it was pretty hard to miss it, with the frankly absurd amount of neon lights on its front. It took a few seconds too many, since the brightness coming from all those lights hurt his eyes and the constant, annoying buzzing that constantly emanated from them made his head spin, but eventually Castiel found the name of the establishment amongst that truly overwhelming whirlwind of light and colors—Ronnie’s Bar.

Not very creative, but who was Castiel to judge?

At first, Castiel figured that smell must be coming from inside, that whatever dish had him feeling this way, whatever food had such a concerning effect on his body must be something that bar served, something he could go inside and buy for himself.

But the closer he got to the building, the clearer it became to him that the smell wasn’t coming from _inside_. In fact, it seemed to be coming from—

“Not so tough without your buddies to back you up, huh?”

Castiel froze at the sound of a male voice echoing loudly through the air, though at first he wasn’t sure where it was coming from exactly. He looked around, searching for the source of it, but he still couldn’t see anyone nearby. All the cars parked in front of the bar seemed to be empty, and that street still seemed unnervingly devoid of life, so he really couldn’t tell where exactly—

“You’re _all_ bark and no bite, aren’t you?” the same voice from before asked, and this time, it was followed by what sounded like a pained grunt. “Where’s all that bravado gone, huh, tough guy? You gonna fight back or are you just gonna lie there and take it like the fucking coward you really are?”

A weird sound—a hollow, choked laugh—filled the air, followed by another voice. “Well, if I’m the coward, then what does that make _you?”_ The words sounded weird, dragged, not entirely clear, like the guy had something in his mouth, or like he couldn’t really move his tongue to form the words properly. “The guy who jumps another guy when he can’t even defend himself? The oh-so-brave macho man who waits until I’m _drunk_ and _alone_ to corner me and beat me up? You _really_ think you’re the—”

Whatever the second man had been about to say was cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of what Castiel assumed was a punch, then of yet another pained grunt. A low thud followed, like someone had fallen to the ground, and then the sound of a few more punches echoed through the air.

Without a thought, Castiel stepped forward. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what he would have done under different circumstances. Maybe he would still have wandered over to where those voices were coming from, to try to stop whatever fight seemed to be taking place there, or maybe he would have gone inside to get help. If he'd stopped for a second to really think about it, he probably would have realized that second one was probably the smartest option, and the safest one, too.

But for some reason, he didn't even consider it, and he dropped that train of thought as soon as it crossed his mind. He really wasn’t thinking as he continued to move forward—he had no idea why he was following the sound of those voices, or what he intended to do once he finally found those two men. He really wasn’t thinking _at all._

As it turned out, the sounds from that fight were coming from the narrow, darkened alleyway right beside the bar, and as soon as the pair came into view, Castiel froze, steps halting as he took a moment to process the scene that greeted him there.

One of the two men was lying on the ground, blood running down his face and filling his mouth, which explained why his voice had sounded so weird before. His nose appeared to be broken, and he had a big gash on his forehead. One of his eyes was closed and swollen, and it didn’t look like he could open it.

The second man was standing, towering above the other one with his fists clenched at his sides, his back turned to Castiel and the skin of his hands stained in crimson, covered in quite a bit of blood that was probably not his own.

The smell was at its strongest in that alley—the air was _filled_ with it, even more than the air at the hospital had been, so much that Castiel felt his mouth water because of it, that his heart sped up inside his chest and his throat grew inexplicably dry all of a sudden. Everything inside of him was practically _screaming_ at him to step forward and find the source of that smell, but that didn’t make any sense, because that was an _alley._ What the _hell_ could smell like that in a place like this? Where could he even—

“Hey, what the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Castiel’s head snapped up at those words, and it was only then that he realized the man who seemed to have been beating the other had at some point turned around and was now glaring at him.

Castiel hadn’t even noticed him moving at all.

“I’m talking to you, Constantine!” the man tried again, his voice louder, sharper than before, “Just keep walking, you damn weirdo, before I give you something to worry about.”

Maybe under any other circumstances, if Castiel had still been able to think clearly, he would have felt scared, would have been afraid that man might be irrational (or drunk) enough to actually try to hurt him. Maybe he would have left, or maybe he would have called for help. He wasn’t sure what he would have done exactly, but he knew for a fact that he wouldn’t have just stood there, staring at the guy without moving a single muscle, as if those words hadn’t had any effect on him, as though they’d simply fallen onto deaf ears.

In fact, for some reason Castiel truly couldn’t fathom in that moment, he didn’t feel scared at all—not even a little bit—and leaving didn’t even cross his mind as he continued to just stand there, a few feet away from where the two men were. Actually, everything inside of him was telling him to do the very _opposite_ of leaving, and in that moment, he really just wanted to step _forward_ , to walk _closer_ to the pair.

And as little sense as that made, Castiel found he couldn’t exactly fight that urge, so in the end, that’s exactly what he did.

Slowly, Castiel took a few steps forward, his eyes darting around that alley, paying attention to every single detail he found, surveying his surrounding as carefully as he could, until his eyes finally found the fallen man again, who was still on the ground. He was sitting up now, though, his bloodied face turned toward Castiel as he frowned, clearly confused by what he was seeing.

For some reason, Castiel couldn’t quite look away from the man after that.

“Dude, are you deaf?” the first man asked, though Castiel didn’t even bother looking up at him this time, “Are you fucking high or something?”

Castiel simply ignored him and kept walking. Something was pulling him toward the man on the ground, and although he had no idea what that was exactly, he really didn’t have the strength to fight it. He didn’t—

“Hey, I’m talking to you, you freak!”

A hand closed around his arm, pulling at it, though its grip was remarkably weak, and the sharp tug was far from enough to turn Castiel around.

Still, Castiel paused, glancing down at the hand currently wrapped around his bicep.

The knuckles on it were bloody, just like the other man's face.

Damn it, where was that smell coming from? It was _so strong_ now, like it was coming from something that was _right there_ , right in front of his face, but he couldn’t see anything that could possibly smell like that. He could tell he was close, like he could just reach out and take whatever it was that smelled so delicious, so _heavenly_ , but he _couldn’t_ do that, because he didn’t know what it _was._ He didn’t even know where could start looking for it around here, where something like that could possibly—

“Dude, seriously, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Oh, right, Castiel wasn’t alone here, and that guy was still _right there,_ just _staring_ at him, still asking questions, still _holding on to his arm,_ with his wounded, blood-covered hand and bloody knuckles—

“Hey! What the fuck?!”

The man tried to pull his hand back, and it was only then that Castiel realized he had gripped it at some point and raised it, bringing it closer to his face so that he could have a closer look at it. He was quick to tighten his grip around it, though, not allowing the movement to happen, not allowing that hand to slip out of his grasp.

Before he could really think about what he was doing, Castiel lifted his own hand to gently touch the blood currently covering the guy’s knuckles, feeling it warm against his skin. He raised his hand a bit more to have a closer look at the blood, and this time when the man tried to pull his hand back again, Castiel let him do it without a fight, suddenly preoccupied with something else entirely.

This was it. This was _it—_ the source of that heavenly smell, the thing he’d been searching for, what his body had been _craving_ since Pontiac. He was absolutely _sure_ of it.

Still, part of him was screaming, yelling at him that this couldn’t be right, because he was talking about _blood_. This couldn’t be what he wanted. He couldn’t possibly… He _couldn’t…_

But all rational thought seemed to have flown right out the window by then, leaving him completely helpless, unable to realize the true _insanity_ of that situation, because that word seemed completely empty, devoid of any meaning, and in that moment, Castiel really didn’t see _any_ problem with lifting his hand up to his lips and licking that blood off his skin.

He wanted this—no, he _needed_ it.

It tasted even better than he’d expected.

There really wasn’t a lot of blood on his fingers, but the tiny drops that Castiel carefully licked into his mouth were still enough to start a fire inside of him, to make all his nerve endings come to life at once, singing in delight at _finally_ being given what his body truly wanted. For a moment, the entire world seemed fade around him, turning into nothing more than a meaningless blur of colors and empty background noise.

But those sensations faded just a few seconds later, and when Castiel came back to earth, when his mind cleared up and he finally remembered where he was, one thought echoed loudly inside his head—louder than anything else, so much so that it made his head spin.

He needed more. He _needed **more**._

“Dude, what the fuck?!” a voice shouted near him, and Castiel raised his head quickly, startled, only to find the man whose hand he’d taken that marvelous ambrosia from staring at him with wide eyes, clearly shocked by what he’d just seen. He was still standing within arm’s reach, though, which was good. He hadn’t moved away. He was still here, which meant that _delicious_ blood was still here, too. That thought pleased Castiel. “You fucking psycho! What’s wrong with you?”

Castiel wasn’t sure what the man was referring to, but he also didn’t care, so he didn’t spare those loud, exasperated words even a fleeting thought. He had something much more important to worry about right now, and it just couldn't wait.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

He could hear a heartbeat—loud and frantic in his ears, and at first he thought it was his own, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that the sound didn’t match the feeling of his own heart hammering against his ribcage.

No, that heartbeat didn’t belong to him. It belonged to the man standing right in front of him.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

The sound was oddly mesmerizing—hypnotizing, even, enough to drown out any other sound that might have filled the air in that moment. Maybe that man was still talking, still yelling meaningless words at him, but in that moment, Castiel could no longer hear them, could no longer discern what was being said to him, even if he wanted to.

But he didn’t, so that didn’t really matter either way.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

He could see the man’s carotid artery jumping in time with that beautiful heartbeat, perfectly matching its tempo, and suddenly Castiel’s mind was filled with images as he pictured the man’s blood being pumped through his heart, running smoothly through his veins and arteries, flowing endlessly to every portion of the man’s body, going round and round over and over again, warm and thick and dark and truly… utterly…

Delicious.

“What the hell?!”

Castiel blinked, only then realizing that he’d pushed the man backwards at some point, pressing a hand to his sternum so that he could keep him in place, pinning the man against the brick wall right behind him. The man tried to free himself, pushing at Castiel’s hand, but he didn’t succeed—he seemed oddly weak, his efforts not enough to make Castiel’s hand budge even a single inch.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Castiel felt his mouth watering, and he swallowed as his eyes found the side of the man’s neck again. He felt his tongue moving to drag against the tip of his canine teeth, wondering how much pressure would need to be applied to break the man’s skin. Not much, he thought. He was sure he could do it.

His eyes started stinging then—an odd sensation that he’d never felt before in his life and that he had no way to explain—followed by a strange feeling in his gums, like something was dragging against their insides, like something was sliding out of them somehow, as freaky as that sounded.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._

All of a sudden, that beautiful heartbeat picked up a much faster pace, and Castiel glanced up at the man’s face, trying to figure out the reason for that abrupt change.

A pair of wide, scared eyes stared back at him. The man’s bravado was long gone by then, and in that moment, all that Castiel found in his eyes was intense, undisguised _fear._

“Please don’t hurt me,” the man begged, “I’m sorry. Please, _please_ , man, just… just let me go. Just let me go. _Please._ ”

Castiel frowned, confused by the man’s desperate pleas. He tilted his head to the side, trying to make sense out of those words, but he became distracted before he could actually reach a conclusion—the sound of the man’s heartbeat was still remarkably loud, and that artery was still jumping, still calling to Castiel, and he really couldn’t ignore it anymore.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._

The man’s skin was warm against the tips of Castiel’s fingers, invitingly so. He could feel the man’s carotid right underneath, throbbing rhythmically just a few inches beneath the surface, so full and just _waiting_ to be found, just _begging_ him to… to…

The skin did break easily—a lot more easily than Castiel had expected it to. It was just like cutting butter with a hot knife, and the next thing he knew was that his teeth had fully sunk into the man’s flesh and there was blood flowing into his mouth and _yes, yes, that’s_ what he’s been craving—what he _needed_ right now.

It felt even better than before. His body seemed to come alive with every new mouthful he swallowed, his nerve endings flaring up in what he could only describe as pure, overwhelming  _ecstasy._ He sucked and swallowed repeatedly, without pause, without even stopping to breathe, because now that he knew what the man's blood tasted like, he didn’t think he could go even a single second without that feeling. He didn’t want it to ever, _ever_ stop.

But at some point, it did. Eventually, the flow grew far too thin, until it stopped completely, and Castiel had no choice but to pull away. The man fell at his feet with a low thump, but Castiel didn’t pay him any mind. He was breathing heavily, and his mind was struggling to understand how that ambrosia could have run out, to process that it was _over_ and that he wouldn’t be getting any more of it anytime soon. How could he go on without it? How could he… he couldn’t…

Wait a minute. Maybe it wasn’t over. Maybe he could still…

His head snapped up, only to find the second man standing a few feet away from him, his hands held out in front of his body and his eyes wide and scared just like his friend’s had been. Castiel hadn’t realized he’d gotten up from the ground until that moment, but at least he hadn’t run away.

Well, Castiel _was_ standing between him and the only way out of that alley, so maybe that was why.

“What are you, man?” the second man asked, his voice breathy and trembling, but Castiel couldn’t quite focus on his words, not when the guy’s face was still _covered_ in blood and his heart was beating wildly inside his chest, loud and desperate just like his friend’s, too.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._

This time, Castiel didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t need to wonder what was happening, to figure out what his body wanted. He knew exactly what needed to be done, knew exactly what all the urges bubbling up inside of him wanted him to do, what they were _screaming_ at him to do. He knew exactly what he needed to do to feel that overwhelming ecstasy again.

So he just let his body do what it wanted to do, allowing it to move on its own without a fight, and the next thing he knew was that he was holding the second man against the brick wall just as he’d done with the first. He tilted his head to the side and leaned forward quickly, digging his teeth into the man’s flesh just as easily as he’d done with the other guy and _there it was, that feeling, that **taste** , that marvelous, **delicious** ambrosia, that **ecstasy** —_it was all back, washing over him like a freaking tsunami, taking over all of his senses and making him groan lowly in his throat.

This time, it seemed to end even sooner. Castiel was sure not even two whole minutes could have passed before the flow ceased completely, and he let out a low, disgruntled noise as he leaned away from the second man. The guy fell to the ground by Castiel’s feet just like the first one had, and this time, Castiel actually looked down at him, at the man’s limp, unmoving form just lying there on the cold cement; at his empty, unseeing eyes; at the _big,_ _bloody bite mark on his neck._

And that was the precise moment when Castiel’s mind finally cleared up.

It really was like a curtain had been lifted, like he hadn’t actually been in control of his own body up until that moment, but now he’d simply been shoved right back into the driver’s seat—far too abruptly, he might add, so much so that it took him a while to process what’d just happened, what he’d just _done._ For a moment, all he was able to do was blink dumbly at the scene right in front of him without fully understanding what he was looking at.

But when it finally sunk in, when he finally realized the true gravity of the situation, he felt like the ground had simply vanished right beneath his feet, and his knees buckled, struggling to bear his weight. He leaned to the side as his balance wavered, pressing a hand against the brick wall right beside him so that he wouldn’t just fall to the ground as his head started spinning again. His heart picked up a much faster pace inside his chest, but for an entirely different reason this time.

He’d killed them. They were… they were _dead_ , both of them. Castiel had _killed them both._

Those men weren’t like Tom or Meg. They hadn’t actually done anything to hurt Castiel. They hadn’t kidnapped him and kept him a prisoner for _days_. They hadn’t tried to _kill_ him. Castiel didn’t even know who they were—didn't even know their  _names—_ but regardless of what they’d been doing here or what he’d heard them say to each other, Castiel was sure that they hadn’t deserved this.

But Castiel had still killed them anyway.

Fuck, he’d fucking _bitten_ them. He’d… he’d drunk their… he’d freaking _drained them dry._

But _why_ had he done that? _Why had he…?_

_“Because Tom’s not human, and I’m not human either.”_

_No,_ Castiel shook his head quickly, as soon as those words echoed inside his head, as soon the memory of Meg taunting him, trying to play games with his head slipped into his mind. _No, that… that can’t be right. That’s not true. It’s not. It **can’t** be._

But the words kept coming, kept slipping into his mind, one right after the other, no matter how hard he tried to fight it, no matter how much he wanted to just push that memory away and forget about it, to never look at it again.

_“Because it makes sense, doesn’t it? How we don’t die easy. How we’re a lot faster and stronger than you were. Of course, now…” Meg smiled at him, giving him that wicked smile that never failed to make his stomach churn unpleasantly. “Well, now we’re even, aren’t we, Clarence?”_

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, trying to even his ragged breathing, to get a grip on his desperate, confused thoughts, but he just couldn’t seem to do it, couldn’t seem to get himself to calm down.

_“Isn’t it obvious? That injection I gave you?” Meg paused, tilting her head even more to the side—all for dramatic effect, Castiel was sure. “I **turned** you. You’re like me now.”_

_No._

That couldn’t be true—it just _couldn’t._ That stuff wasn’t _real._ That wasn’t… it just wasn’t _possible._

But after what he’d done here, how could he not…? How else was he supposed to explain this? How else could he…?

_“You’re like me now.”_

Castiel pushed himself off that wall far too quickly, and his balance wavered dangerously, his legs unsteady and wobbly, but he didn’t let that stop him. He didn’t even glance at the two dead men lying on the ground as he started walking toward the entrance of that alley, and the next thing he knew was that he was running away from that bar as fast as he possibly could, as fast as his leg could carry him.

He didn’t even think about where he was going, but soon enough he was barging into his motel room, crossing it quickly and darting right into the bathroom. He gripped the sink he found in there with both of his hands, trying to steady himself, feeling the porcelain cold against his palms for just a second before it cracked under his hands.

 _"Fuck!_ "

He jumped, pulling his hands back, which allowed a few chunks of the broken sink to fall to the floor, clattering against the tiles at his feet. He simply stared down at them in shock for a moment, failing to process what'd just happened, before he finally managed to snap out it. He shook his head and lifted a hand, running it through his hair in exasperation, letting out a big, shaky breath.

Fuck, what the hell was _wrong_ with him? What the hell was _happening_ here?

Just as those questions echoed inside his head, he caught sight of his reflection staring right back at him from the small, cracked mirror above the sink, and a gasp jumped from his mouth before he could stop it, his eyes widening at the sight that greeted him.

His face was _covered_ in blood—around his mouth, all the way down to his chin, and there was even a little bit on his cheeks. He was really freaking lucky that he hadn’t run into someone while he’d made his way back to the motel, because this would have been pretty difficult to explain.

He wished he could say that sight was disgusting, that it made his stomach turn, that he felt like throwing up all over again just from looking at himself, from seeing all that blood painting his skin.

But he didn’t. No, in fact, the next thought that crossed his mind was that he shouldn’t allow all that blood to go to waste, that he wished he could lick his own face clean, that at least that would make him feel just a tiny bit like he’d felt back in that alley, that it would bring back all those marvelous sensations, even if only for few short seconds. That way, at least he could—

He cursed as soon as those thoughts crossed his mind, shaking his head frantically, angrily, and before he could do something else he would regret for the rest of his freaking life, he lifted his hands, reaching out for the faucet knobs and turning on the water. The sink was only broken near the edges, so fortunately it could still hold some water without making a mess. He shoved his hands under the steady stream coming out of the faucet, filling them as best as he could so he could throw some water on his face, rubbing at his skin as soon as it was wet, doing his best to scrub it clean. He repeated that process over and over again, watching as the red-stained water flowed down the drain, and he only stopped when his face was finally clean, when there was not even a single hint of blood in sight, where there wasn’t even a single drop of it staining his skin.

But of course that wasn’t enough to erase what he’d done, to make it better somehow. It didn’t _fix_ anything. It didn’t change the fact that he’d just _killed_ those two men, that he’d ended their lives. _Nothing_ would ever change that.

He should turn himself in. He hadn’t even thought about what he was doing when he’d run away from that alley, but now he realized that maybe he should have stayed there. Maybe he should have even called the police, really. He shouldn’t run from this—he _couldn’t_ run from this. It would follow him anywhere he went, no matter how far that may be. He couldn't just go on as if nothing had happened, _pretending_  that everything was okay. He couldn't do that. He _couldn't_.

But this wasn’t a normal situation. He had no idea what’d happened back in that alley, what it _meant._ He had no way to explain it, and he didn’t think he could… he wasn’t sure if he should really…

There was a word lingering in the back of his mind, dancing just behind his eyelids, taunting him, hovering over his head like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over his thoughts, but he couldn’t allow it into his mind, couldn’t let himself acknowledge it. He couldn’t allow himself to even _consider_ it.

But if what Meg had told him was actually true, if there was even a tiny chance that the word he was trying very hard to ignore could possibly be applied to him in any way, if he could _actually_ be a… if there was even a single chance that he was a _freaking_ …

And anyway, no matter what he believed, no matter how utterly absurd he found Meg's story, no matter if he absolutely _refused_ to even think about it, there was still one thing Castiel just couldn't deny, one fact that was crystal clear in his mind now.

He was dangerous, and very much so— _scarily_ so, even.

Maybe he _shouldn't_ turn himself in. It just wouldn’t be safe. Imagine the damage he could do if he were to be locked up in a prison cell, surrounded by countless other people, all of them completely helpless and unable to run away when he inevitably snapped again.

He couldn’t do that. He _wouldn’t_.

And _that_ meant that he had to go. He needed to get out of here, to get away from this town, before it was too late.

So that’s what he did. Of course, the first thing he did when he walked out of that bathroom was leave some cash on the bed, right beside a short note he wrote apologizing for the broken sink. But as soon as that was dealt with, in a repeat of what he’d done back in Pontiac, Castiel hastily grabbed all of his things and made a run for it—out of that room and over to Tessa’s car, starting the engine up quickly and shoving the car into gear, before speeding out of the motel’s parking lot and out of that town without a single glance behind.

And just like when he’d left Pontiac, he had no idea where he was going, or what he would be doing next. He just knew that he had to keep driving, that he had to put as much distance between himself and Casper as he could, that he needed to get as far away from that town as he possibly could.

That same word from before had grown even louder by that point. It was echoing inside his skull nonstop now, _begging_ to be heard, but Castiel still wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. He _couldn’t_ acknowledge it, because that was just absolutely _insane_. It was too much for him. It was… It didn’t make _sense._ It was impossible, so it _couldn’t_ be true. It just couldn’t.

It… it couldn’t, right?

***~*~*~*~***

**2014**

***~*~*~*~***

“Lilith,” Rowena repeated that name for what must have been the tenth time in the last half hour or so, trying it out on her tongue as she leaned back in her chair, a slight frown in her brows. She looked pensive, serious, concentrated, like she was scouring her entire brain, looking for every single mention of that name that she might have witnessed throughout her entire life. It was such a change from how she’d behaved the last time Dean had seen her, it was almost unsettling. “That name sounds… familiar, but I can’t quite place it anywhere.”

“I think we’re going to need something a little more specific than that, Rowena,” Castiel piped up from the spot where he was currently standing by the big, open doorway that separated the library from the war room, his arms crossed over his chest.

Dean had decided against standing for this conversation, so he’d taken a seat right across from the witch at the world map table in the war room. He had his elbows resting on the wooden frame surrounding the glass that covered the map, his chin pressed to his joint hands as he watched Rowena mull over everything he’d just told her.

It felt weird to be back in the Men of Letters’ Bunker. When he’d left this place over a week ago, Dean had been absolutely certain that he’d never, _ever_ set foot in here again.

And yet, here he was.

Rowena huffed, rolling her eyes. “And I need a little more than just a _name_ to work with here, _Castiel,_ ” she replied, a tiny hint of annoyance in her tone.

Castiel let out a breath, before turning to look at the hunter, fixing those intense, azure eyes on Dean. There was a clear hint of urgency to his voice when he asked, “Dean, are you sure you don’t remember anything else?”

Dean shook his head. “No, that’s it. They really didn’t say much. They just talked about this Lilith or whatever not being happy with them because all the other people they tried to turn back in Superior were dead, and Tom was worried because Meg had snatched a hunter and all, but then she gave me the injection, and…” He shrugged, “Well, everything else I heard after that didn’t make much sense—it was mostly stuff that didn’t really connect, just snippets from their conversations. I was too out of it to really hear anything clearly. I just know that they talked about how they were following orders. It really sounded like they answered to someone—probably this Lilith, I’m guessing. But really, that’s it. That’s all I got.”

“But if you really heard _that_ right,” Rowena piped up, “Then that means that killing Tom probably didn’t make much of a difference. Meg still answers to someone. That hasn't changed.”

“And there are probably others like her, too,” Castiel added, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall right behind him. He sighed, letting his head tilt backwards, thumping lightly against the doorframe he was currently leaning against. “This isn’t just about Meg and Tom. This is… much more complicated than that. Much _bigger._ ”

“But we’ve considered this before,” Rowena pointed out, “Back when all of this started.”

“Yes, we did," Castiel replied, "But we never had a reason to really _believe_ it. This is the first time we actually have any confirmation of it. We didn’t know for sure before. Everything that’s happened so far—the Grand Coven, the kidnappings, the deaths—all of it was always just so… disconnected. But now…”

“Now we know our problems are a lot bigger than just a couple of rogue hybrids turning a bunch of people randomly and trying to build themselves a pack,” Rowena finished Castiel’s train of thought for him, and oh, okay, so that’s what a group of hybrids was called, then—a pack, not a nest.

Castiel simply gave a slow, careful nod in response.

Dean’s eyes darted back and forth between the pair, silently waiting for someone to explain to him what the hell that whole conversation had been about, to clarify the meaning hidden behind that exchange, but when a loaded silence took over the air of that room instead, he realized that he would have to ask for an explanation himself. “Okay, what the hell are you talking about?” he asked, causing two pairs of eyes to focus on him. “I feel like there’s some stuff you’re not telling me here.”

As if to confirm the hunter’s words, Castiel and Rowena exchanged a long, meaningful look across the room. They both seemed suspiciously tense all of a sudden, and Dean couldn't help but narrow his eyes at them because of it.

Rowena was the first one to break that silent staring contest, looking down at the table, only to raise a hand and pick up one of the colorful, round plastic bands that just seemed to _always_  be there, resting on top of the map. She started fiddling with it as she asked, “You wanna tell him, or should I?”

“It’s your story,” was Castiel’s low, calm reply. “Perhaps you should.”

Dean fixed his gaze on Rowena, and when the witch finally raised her head to look at him again—probably to measure the hunter’s reaction to Castiel’s words—he lifted his eyebrows at her, wordlessly asking her for an explanation.

Rowena sighed, leaning back in her chair once more. She tossed the plastic band back onto the table, shaking her head slowly as she pursed her lips, apparently taking a moment to organize her thoughts, or perhaps to figure out how to put whatever was on her mind in that moment into words—her _story_ , as Castiel had called it.

It took her over a minute to speak again, to figure out how to say whatever she wanted to say, but eventually, she finally did.

“I was born in a tiny little village in Scotland, over three hundred years ago.”

Oh, so Dean had been right about her accent, then. She really was Scottish.

“I was born with the gift of magic—unlike most witches you must have encountered in your life. I don’t channel my powers from darkness, nor did I taint my soul to obtain them through… unholy means. My powers are mine, and mine alone, and they’ve been with me since I took my first breath in this world.”

Dean had heard about natural-born witches before, of course, though he knew they were pretty rare. He’d never actually met one, but he’d always just assumed that was exactly why—because there weren’t that many of them out there to begin with. All the witches he’d ever hunted had used dark magic, had damned their souls in exchange for their powers, but in Rowena’s case, her magic should be… well, pure, natural.

He chose not to comment on that, though. He still hated witches, regardless of where their magic came from, and he really didn’t like Rowena in particular, so this didn’t exactly change anything.

“But because of my magic, I could never stay in the same place for too long, not back then. You see, a few centuries ago, life was difficult for people like me—or at least a lot more difficult than it is now. I moved around a lot. I was always on the run, always hiding away. Fergus was born in Scotland as well, but we moved to England right after, so he grew up there.”

“Fergus?” Dean asked.

Rowena let out a small, dry chuckle. “My son, who apparently hates his own name so much that he started calling himself _Crowley_ at some point.” Oh, well, that did explain why Crowley’s accent was so different from his mother’s. “He absolutely _refuses_ to go by Fergus, which is exactly why I make sure to call him by his _real_ name as often as I possibly can.”

Well, Dean really couldn’t blame Crowley for choosing to go by another name. Seriously, what the hell was Rowena thinking, calling her son _Fergus?_ What kind of name was _that?_

He chose not to comment on that either, and instead, the hunter voiced another question that was currently echoing pretty loudly inside his head.

“Okay, but why are you telling me all this?” He really had no idea what the fuck Rowena’s freaking life story had to do with Meg and, well, whatever was going on with this Lilith chick, whoever she was.

“Oh, trust me, dear, I’ll get there,” Rowena was quick to reply. She tucked a strand of her orange hair behind her ear before she continued, “The point here is: I… I wasn’t always the best mother to Fergus. He was a very… _lonely_ child, and I always had so much to worry about that I… I just didn’t have the time to give him the attention he needed. And he was always so… sad, too, so… broody, and I knew it was my fault. So one day, when danger finally came our way, well… I thought that maybe he would be better off without me—that he would be _safe_. He was human, after all, and the only reason why anyone would want to hurt him was me—because of  _my_ magic. So... I left.”

Oh, wow. Yeah, that didn’t sound good.

It did explain why Rowena and Crowley didn’t seem to have the best relationship, though. Dean hadn’t really seen them interact all that much, but if he recalled his first night here in this Bunker correctly, their comments toward each other hadn’t seemed warm and friendly at all. Dean had a feeling that they bickered a lot, and not in a fun, lighthearted way.

“How old was he when you left?” Dean couldn’t help but ask.

Rowena shrugged. “Nine years old, give or take.”

Okay, yeah, that was pretty bad.

“I didn’t see him again for a long time after that—decades, actually. I always meant to look for him, to check on him and see how he was doing, but Fergus apparently didn’t want anything to do with me, because he made it impossible for me to find him. He even cloaked himself from my magic. But eventually, after several failed attempts, I finally found him—by sheer luck, of all things.”

“And I imagine he wasn’t too happy to see you,” Dean guessed.

Rowena shook her head. “I don’t think he remembers it, actually. He… he was very sick. I’m not sure what he had. He was coughing up blood—a lot of it. Maybe it was tuberculosis, maybe it was lung cancer, I don’t know. Again, this was centuries ago, so medicine wasn’t exactly as developed as it is today, and as gifted as I’ve always been, I wasn’t as brilliant with healing magic as I am now. It was never really my forte. But regardless, I knew that my son was dying, and I _had_ to save him. After everything I put him through in his life, after abandoning him when he was nothing more than a child, I _owed_ him that.”

Okay, Dean really didn’t like where this was going.

“I tried everything.” Rowena’s voice grew hoarser all of a sudden, and the hunter was pretty sure she must be reliving some pretty bad memories in her head. “I tried every single healing spell I could find, every single potion I came across, but nothing worked, and… eventually I realized that my magic wouldn’t be enough to save him that time.” She closed her eyes, pulling in a breath and letting it out slowly. “I was running against time. I was desperate. But I couldn’t call for help, couldn’t ask another witch to save him. You see, I… I’ve always been a bit of an outcast amongst witches. I was a part of the Grand Coven for a little while, which was the biggest, most powerful coven of witches there was at the time, but… well, they kicked me out, said that they found me too reckless and irresponsible, so I had no one else to turn to.”

“Don’t tell me you were stupid enough to make a deal,” Dean asked.

Rowena scoffed, rolling her eyes, like she believed the single thought of what the hunter had just suggested was truly absurd. “Oh, gods, no. I never had to rely on dark magic for anything, and I never will. No, I… I had to get creative.”

“Creative?” Dean questioned. He still had a pretty bad feeling about this, and he still wasn’t sure where exactly this story was going, but he had to admit he was a little curious by that point. So he asked, “How creative, exactly?”

Rowena licked her lips, lowering her gaze back down to the table right in front of her. She let one of her long, red fingernails drag over the lines of the map, clearly hesitating to respond, like she knew she had to choose her next words _very_ carefully. Dean had a pretty bad feeling about what that might mean.

“Tell me, Dean,” she finally started, and her voice sounded different now. It seemed like there was some sort of hidden meaning behind her words that Dean wasn’t sure how to decipher. “Do you know where the very first monsters came from?”

The question sounded innocent, but immediately Dean knew that it was anything but. He frowned at the witch, narrowing his eyes, but he couldn't really read anything from her expression, couldn't figure out where exactly she wanted to get with that question.

“Not really, no,” Dean finally replied, shaking his head, “Never really gave it much thought, to be honest. I’ve always been more preoccupied with figuring out how to kill them all.”

Rowena pursed her lips at the hunter’s response, but otherwise ignored it. “No one has a definitive answer to where all the monsters truly came from, but several sources mention the same name—Eve, also very commonly referred to as The Mother of All. No one really knows what she was, though—some speculate that she was a witch, others believe she was something else entirely. But no matter _what_ she truly was, one thing is certain—all monsters didn’t simply appear out of thin air, and legend says that she was the one responsible for whatever brought them into this world. Every single breed of monster had to be _created_ at some point, and I was convinced that whatever kind of magic was used to make those creatures in the first place could somehow be replicated, if I had the right ingredients.”

Suddenly, Dean had a pretty good idea where this story was headed, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

So was that how Crowley had been turned into a hybrid, then? By his own _mother?_ What the hell?

“I wanted to cure Fergus, of course, but one thought haunted me throughout every single second I spent at his bedside, every single time I had to watch him grow paler and weaker, or cough up blood, or struggle to do something as simple as _breathing_. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how curing him wouldn’t actually solve anything. He could get sick again—he definitely would, since he didn’t inherit my gift for magic. He was human, which meant that eventually, he _would_ grow old and die. And even if I knew how to stop his aging—there’s a spell for that, one that I knew would work—the spell wouldn’t change what he was. He would remain human, would remain weak and vulnerable, and I would feel _so_ much better if I _knew_ that he wasn’t so helpless anymore.”

“So you figured out how to turn your son into a freaking hybrid, is that it?” Dean asked, a little exasperated that Rowena had actually thought that was a valid solution for, well, _anything,_ really.

Rowena gave him a small, sad smile, “Something like that.” She adjusted herself in her seat again, letting out a small sigh. “No offense, but I never really liked vampires.” Dean let out a tiny scoff at that, because why the fuck would he be offended? No matter what’d happened to him, he still couldn’t stand those damn bloodsuckers either. That certainly hadn’t changed. “However, as surprising as it may sound, there aren’t that many creatures out there that don’t age, so in the end, I realized that my options were pretty limited. Still, I wasn’t happy with the idea of turning Fergus into a vampire—I knew it would save him, but… I wanted to do right by him, and not simply turn him into some… bloodthirsty night creature who would probably hate me forever after it was all over.

“So I started looking for other options. I discarded wendigos and rugarus right away, of course, but I considered many others—werewolves, skinwalkers, shapeshifters, ghouls, djinns, familiars, kitsunes, wraiths, sirens—but none of them seemed like a very good option. Werewolves, skinwalkers and kitsunes all age, so those were out. Familiars are… way too complicated, and he would probably end up attracting some other witch’s attention, and I didn’t want that. Ghouls and shapeshifters are way too messy, and honestly, wraiths, sirens and djinns always freaked me out a bit, so I didn’t really consider those either. So… no matter how much I looked, I always ended up coming back to vampires _, every single time_ , until… well, until I found some texts about a rather rare creature called a whisper.”

That name had Dean pausing, because he’d never heard it before in his life, and that was saying something. “What the hell is that?” he asked, a small frown settling in his brows.

Rowena looked down at the table again, licking her lips, still clearly choosing her words very carefully. “There is lore about a creature that feeds on both human blood and hearts, and they were thought to be vampire-werewolf hybrids at some point, but that’s actually not the case. They are known as whispers because when they hunt, their attacks are so quiet and fast that their prey has no chance of seeing them coming at all. They only feed during a solar eclipse, though, and they don’t shift into wolves or anything of the sort, not even during the full moon _or_ the solar eclipse, so they’re not actually hybrids. My research led me to believe that they don’t actually have a connection to vampires and werewolves at all.

“But the idea of a hybrid really stuck with me, so I started spinning it around inside my head, trying to understand how such a creature would even work. I considered all the combinations I could think of, trying to figure out what the best match for a vampire truly was, because the thing with hybrids is—most of the time, their weaknesses cancel each other out and their strengths add up, but sometimes the _opposite_ happens, so I had to be very careful. I tried to predict what would happen when the mixture between each pair of species was made, what traits each hybrid would carry so I could choose the best option—which wasn’t easy to do, mind you.”

There was a long pause as a heavy, pregnant silence draped itself over the room, during which Dean found himself unable to do anything else other than stare at Rowena with wide, surprised eyes, because the meaning behind her words was clear, but she couldn’t possibly mean that she had… she _couldn’t_ have…

“I chose werewolf in the end,” Rowena added, either completely oblivious to the hunter's disbelief or simply choosing to ignore it. “It really seemed like the best choice. However, I couldn’t find even a single reference to a vampire-werewolf hybrid anywhere. Apparently, such a creature didn’t even exist, so I had to make the spell to create one from scratch.”

“Just... just wait a damn second. Are you telling that _you…_?” was all Dean managed to let out, but he let his voice trail off at the end, because he couldn’t even bring himself to voice that thought. He couldn’t even…

Rowena nodded slowly, carefully. Her eyes were sharp as she measured the hunter’s reaction, watching him with unwavering attention. “I didn’t simply turn Fergus into a hybrid,” she clarified, voicing the thought that Dean just didn’t seem able to put into words in that moment, “I turned him into the _first_ hybrid.”

Another heavy silence filled the room, this one even more loaded than the previous. No one moved even a single muscle during the seconds that followed, and once again, all Dean found himself able to do was stare at Rowena, completely dumbfounded, failing to process what he’d just heard, to _wrap his head around it._

Until he finally snapped out of it.

“So _you’re_ the one who… who _made_ this curse?” he asked, voice rising in volume and carrying an obvious hint of the anger he could already feel blooming inside of him, sparking to life fast and abruptly, quickly turning into a strong, dangerous flame. “ _You’re_ the reason I’m—”

A strong, firm hand pushed him down against his chair, and it was only then that Dean realized he’d been about to stand up—apparently, he’d already risen a bit from his seat before that hand had pushed him back down. He looked up, startled, only to find Castiel standing right beside him, holding him still with his hand resting on the hunter’s shoulder, a hard look in his blue eyes.

Dean hadn’t even noticed him moving at all.

“What happened to you wasn’t her fault, Dean,” Castiel said, his voice firm and unwavering.

“Oh, really?” Dean scoffed, “So you’re telling me that you don’t blame her for this? Not even a little bit?”

“Maybe I did, in the beginning,” Castiel admitted, shaking his head weakly, “But not anymore. She might have created this curse, but she wasn’t the one who turned me, or you, so before you try to direct all your anger at her, just… listen to the rest of the story. It might change your mind.”

Listening to whatever Rowena had to say for herself was definitely the _last_ thing Dean wanted to do right now, and the hunter was pretty damn sure that nothing _anyone_ said to him would be enough to change his mind about this, but he still relented, letting out an annoyed sigh as he turned his head to glare at the witch, just to make sure she knew he was the very opposite of happy about this.

Rowena didn’t seem too affected by that glare, though. She simply considered him for a moment, her eyes still sharp and measuring, before she continued telling her story, as if she hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Fergus wasn’t happy with me after it was all said and done—”

Dean scoffed. “I can’t imagine why.”

Rowena rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t actually respond to the hunter’s comment. “He yelled at me, called me every single name he knew, and probably made up a few new ones, too. And then he just… took off on his own. He disappeared, just like before, and I didn’t see him again for almost _two whole centuries_ , but at least I knew he was fine, and that we had all the time in the world to sort things out. So I decided to just give him time and wait until he came around, hoping that eventually he would understand why I did it, and that he would forgive me for it.

“Only the next time I saw him, we were both prisoners, locked away in the Grand Coven’s dungeon. Again, the Grand Coven had kicked me out a couple of centuries prior, but apparently, they’d been keeping an eye on me, because they knew what I’d done—or at least they knew that I’d turned my son into some sort of creature that they didn’t understand, and that worried them. So they trapped both of us, kept us chained up in a couple of dark, dirty cells like rabid animals. They claimed that they wanted to figure out what I’d done exactly so they could… fix it, or stop it from happening again, but I could see right through their lies. I knew exactly what they were up to. They were far too curious, and they just wanted to figure out a way to _replicate_ what I’d done, not how to reverse it or prevent it from happening again.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, and Castiel finally let his hand fall from the hunter’s shoulder—though he didn’t move away, instead choosing to linger right beside Dean, like he was still afraid that the hunter might try to stand up again if he stepped back, like he felt he needed to be there, ready to stop Dean if he tried to pounce on Rowena or something.

“Let me guess,” the hunter said, crossing his arms over his chest and completely ignoring the way Castiel was pretty much just looming over him, “You’re trying to place the blame for this whole mess on this… _Grand Coven_ , is that it? Saying that _they_ figured out how to make more hybrids or something, so this is _their_ fault and not yours?”

Rowena shook her head quickly, without a moment of thought. “Oh, no, I’m really not. I know what I did, Dean—I’m not denying that. But the truth is—and I’m really not trying to sound poetic or anything—I only realized true the gravity of the situation back in that dungeon. You see, I didn’t get a chance to spend that much time with Fergus before he disappeared again, so I didn’t know exactly what kind of creature I’d turned him into. The whole process of figuring out how to make a hybrid was nothing more than a guessing game, and I didn’t know for sure which traits from each species he actually ended up carrying, how he behaved, how _dangerous_ he was. I had no idea just how powerful the creature I had brought into this world truly turned out to be until I saw Fergus again. I was really hoping for a middle ground between werewolf and vampire, but instead, all of theirs strengths added up just the right way. I’d created a vampire that isn’t affect by the sun, a werewolf that turns at will—and into an actual, _gigantic_ wolf, too. A creature that doesn’t age, that’s much stronger and faster than a vampire or a werewolf, that can’t be killed by silver, only wounded, and that’s _very_ hard to kill—and all of that sounded lot more dangerous than what I’d originally intended.

“But it was already too late for any regrets, and all I could do was… well, apologize. Apparently, Fergus struggled a lot to adapt—understandably, of course—and he was still mad at me, but at least we were both locked up in cells for that conversation, so he couldn’t exactly vanish on me again, and I finally got the chance to explain myself to him. He didn’t want to hear it, but he didn’t exactly have a choice.”

“Rowena,” Castiel piped up, probably to warn her that she’d started rambling, which Dean was very much glad for. He _really_ didn’t care about Rowena and Crowley’s family drama.

“Right,” Rowena replied, nodding lightly as she let out a small, humorless chuckle. She cleared her throat before she started talking again. “I’m not sure what _exactly_ the Grand Coven planned to do with us, but my guess is that they truly wanted to figure out how to replicate the spell to make a hybrid so they could use it, for whatever reasons. I was certain that they were only keeping me and Fergus alive because they needed us, and that they would kill us both as soon as they figured out how to do the spell.”

Freaking witches—not even _other_ witches could trust them, apparently.

Dean held himself back from huffing and rolling his eyes at that thought.

“But they didn’t consider _one_ thing,” Rowena smiled, a small spark coming to life in her eyes. “I was only a part of the Grand Coven for a few years, but no matter how short my time with them was, I still made some acquaintances there. And one of those acquaintances in particular owed me a pretty big favor—her life, more specifically.

“And even if Clea wasn’t very fond of me, she was a woman of honor, and she _always_ paid her debts. So one night, she came down to the dungeons not only to free us, but to give us a way to hide from the Grand Coven for a while, since it was obvious that they wouldn’t stop looking for us if we escaped. So,” She raised a hand to gesture at the room around them, “She gave us the key to this Bunker.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose a bit at that. So _Rowena_ was the 'someone' Castiel had mentioned, then? The one who had the key to this place?

Huh.

“You see, just a couple of years before the Grand Coven took me and Fergus, the Men of Letters tried to kill them, sent their very best men to hunt every single one of their witches down like dogs. But their little plan didn't work at all, and the Grand Coven hit them back twice as hard. They crushed those bookworms like the bugs they truly were, and they didn’t even see it coming. And that meant that all of the Men of Letters’… bunkers and chapter houses and whatever other secret places they owned suddenly became available, for anyone to take. And sure, after all the Men of Letters were dead, the Grand Coven became privy of the locations of all those places, but Clea was a smart witch, always prepared for the worst, so she’d taken that key for herself as a precaution, in case she ever needed somewhere to hide, and I couldn’t argue with her that this Bunker really would be the _last_ place the Grand Coven would ever look for me and Fergus.”

“So you’re still hiding from them?” Dean couldn’t help but ask.

Rowena chuckled again, shaking her head at him. “Oh, no. I’m afraid the Grand Coven doesn’t exist anymore—well, to be honest, I’m not sad about that at all. When I heard the news, I was _very_ relieved. I did feel a little bad for Clea, though, but,” The witch shrugged, not seeming sympathetic or sad even in the slightest, “There was nothing I could have done to save her.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at her, a small spark of curiosity coming to life inside his chest. “What happened to them?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of the witch’s mouth, though it looked… weird, like it didn’t quite reach her eyes, like it wasn’t completely sincere. “Two days after Clea helped me and Fergus escape, someone managed to sneak into every single one of the Grand Coven’s locations, every single house and mansion and whatever else they owned, and killed every single one of them—the most powerful witches in the whole world, slaughtered,” She snapped her fingers, “Just like that. And it happened _so soon_ after we escaped that it led me to believe that whoever did it might’ve been looking for us.”

Dean frowned, because he’d been sure he’d already figured out where that story had been headed. He'd been expecting to hear about how Rowena and Crowley had somehow gotten their revenge on the Grand Coven, that _they'd_ been the ones behind the Grand Coven's demise, and he was a bit surprised to find out that he’d been pretty wrong about that. “Do you know who it was?” he asked.

Rowena pressed her lips together, then shook her head. “No, but whatever they wanted, I just know it couldn’t be good. And no matter what happened, even if they didn’t actually find us… I’m pretty sure whoever was responsible for what happened to the Grand Coven still found something  _extremely_ valuable there.”

Dean licked his lips, then shifted in his seat. He wasn’t sure he would like the answer he would get, but he still asked, “How valuable, exactly?”

Rowena paused for a moment, as though feeling the need to choose her words carefully again, considering what she was going to say next with extra caution.

“Fergus and I were on our own for a long time,” she finally said, and Dean couldn't help but frown at her, not sure where exactly that shift in the conversation had come from, but he kept quiet. “Decades, really. We decided it would be safer to stay together, and as difficult as that was most days, things were good. Eventually, he forgave me for what I did to him, and we lived well—or as well as we could, I suppose. We were still hiding, since we didn’t know _who_ exactly could be after us, or even if there really was anyone looking for us, but… we were fine, there was no denying that.

“Until we heard rumors about another hybrid.”

Dean sat up straighter in his chair, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel shift a bit on his feet, clearly ready to intervene if Dean tried to stand up again.

“That was seven years ago,” Rowena added before Dean could say anything. “And ever since then, the rumors just didn’t stop. From time to time, we would hear about a new sighting, about a new town being struck, about even _more_ people disappearing, only to show up dead several days later. At some point, it became two hybrids instead of just one, but… the story was always the same.”

“But they weren’t just _killing_ people,” Dean guessed, since he was pretty sure Rowena was talking about Meg and Tom. “They were trying to turn them already, weren’t they?”

Rowena nodded slowly. “We figured that out, too, though it took a while. I turned Fergus with a spell, but at the time, I had no idea how risky the whole process was. I didn’t know that most people can’t survive the change. I didn’t even know that a hybrid could turn someone else, really. I thought they couldn’t, but apparently I was wrong.”

“But they can’t, can they?” Dean asked, frowning. “I mean, whatever Meg injected me with really looked like blood, but it couldn’t have been just that, or else why would she have given me an _injection?”_

“It wasn’t just blood,” Rowena replied, “But the injection really isn’t necessary. Vampires turn people through their blood, and werewolves release venom when they bite during the full moon. But unlike an average werewolf, a hybrid isn't tied to the full moon, so you don't actually need to take the moon cycle into account for anything. All a hybrid needs to do to turn someone is give them some hybrid blood, and then bite them, no matter what phase the moon is at. The combination of hybrid blood and venom is all that’s necessary, which is why we’re still not sure why Meg and Tom have been injecting their victims with both of those things to turn them. I’ve always found that a bit odd.”

Dean frowned. "But doesn't that mean that a hybrid bite could turn someone into a werewolf?"

"No," Rowena shook her head, "You do release venom every time you bite, but hybrid venom is different from werewolf venom. It needs to react with hybrid blood to actually do anything. Same thing with the blood—you can't just turn someone into a vampire by giving them your blood, because it needs your venom to actually do anything, or else it'll just work its way out of the human's system naturally."

Huh. Well, that was certainly... interesting; Dean couldn't deny it.

But of course, he chose not to comment on that.

“But how do you know it wasn’t Crowley that started all this, then?" he asked instead, "That he didn’t turn anyone? He was on his own for years, wasn’t he? God knows what he got up to during that time.”

“Fergus didn’t turn anyone,” Rowena replied quickly, without a beat, her voice surprisingly firm, “He didn’t even know he _could_ turn people, just like I didn’t. And anyway, why would he even do that? I know it wasn’t him, and I have no doubts about that.”

Dean still didn’t trust that, of course, but he chose not to insist on that subject right now. There was just no point in arguing with Rowena about this, anyway. He definitely didn’t need her to agree with him on this, so why try to convince her? Dean would draw his own conclusions about this, and she had nothing to do with it.

“Okay, so say you’re right about this,” Dean conceded, even if he didn’t truly believe that version of the story. He just wanted to get as much information as he could about all the possible scenarios, so he’d know exactly what he was working with here. “And that whoever ended the Grand Coven is really who started making hybrids, then what does all of this mean? Why are they doing this? You ever figure _that_ out?”

Rowena gave him an annoyed look. “Well, if I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now, would we?”

Dean glared right back at her for that.

Rowena let out a small, annoyed sigh before she continued on with her story. “We didn’t know who Meg and Tom were back then, and we didn’t know _why_ they were turning people—frankly, we still don’t—but we knew for a fact that whoever they turned was never seen again. We've been trying to figure out where they go for years, to track down the hybrids they turn, but we never found even a single one. It really is like they just... disappear out of thin air."

Rowena's expression shifted then, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth and a weird spark coming to life in her eyes.

Dean wasn't sure what to make of that change.

“And then five years after we heard the rumor about the first hybrid other than Crowley, we heard word that a hybrid Meg and Tom had turned had supposedly gotten away from them—the first one to do so, in fact. We hoped that if we tracked him down, he would be able to give us some answers, that he would be able to _explain_ to us what was happening, but as it turned out…” Rowena glanced at Castiel, “Well, he knew even less than we did.”

Dean turned his head, chancing a brief glance up at Castiel, only to find the blue-eyed hybrid with his head hanging low, his features an unreadable mask.

“But we made a deal with him anyway,” Rowena continued, and Dean turned his head back around to look at her.

“They let me stay with them, and they helped me adjust,” Castiel spoke up for the first time in a while, “And in exchange, they would have another hybrid around, to help in case whoever was behind this whole mess somehow found them. There is safety in numbers, after all.”

“Castiel needed help,” Rowena added before Dean could say anything, “And Fergus and I could use some more supernatural muscle, if you get what I mean. We figured we would be safer together. And while Castiel didn’t know a whole lot about what was happening, at least he’d actually met Meg and Tom, and he was able to tell us a bit about them, so we knew exactly what to look for if we wanted to find them.”

Well, that did make sense, Dean supposed. “And then you started hunting them down, I’m assuming?”

“Not right away,” Castiel replied, and Dean turned to look at him again. There was a serious look on Castiel's face, something somber and a little unnerving that the hunter wasn't sure how to read. “We still didn’t know what we were really dealing with, so for a while, all we did was… observe, try to figure out a pattern to the towns they chose, to the people they took.”

“Only there wasn’t one,” Rowena provided, “Everything seemed too random, not connected at all. Sometimes the towns they chose were close to each other, and then other times they were states apart. And the people they took, they had nothing in common. Unlike most creatures, Meg and Tom just didn't seem to have a type, a preference. And the weirdest part was—they truly seemed to be the only hybrids we could find, which just… didn’t make much sense, if they really were turning so many people. We were still considering the possibility that there was someone behind all this, someone big and powerful, but… that scenario seemed more improbable with every new sighting of Meg and Tom we came across. It just didn’t feel like… like there was something big at play here.”

“At some point, we started considering that whoever found the spell when they ended the Grand Coven didn’t actually have some sort of… ulterior motive to make more hybrids,” Castiel explained. “Maybe they didn’t even know what they were doing at the time, or maybe they did and they turned either Meg or Tom—or even both of them—just because they could. Either way… it seemed to us that maybe this was all just a bad situation that was quickly getting out of hand, and not a part of some… evil plan; that whoever ended the Grand Coven wasn't actually behind all those disappearances. Maybe Meg and Tom were just turning a bunch of people because they could, because they wanted to… build a pack or something. That’s the theory we’ve been working with for over a year.”

“Until now,” Rowena piped up. “ _Now,_ knowing that Meg and Tom actually _answer_ to someone, things just got a lot more complicated.”

Yeah, Dean could see that.

“But you have no idea who this Lilith is,” the hunter pointed out.

Rowena shook her head. “No. But you see, Dean—the Grand Coven didn’t carry such a pretentions name for nothing. It was a coven made up of the greatest, most powerful witches in this world, so whoever was able to kill _every single_ one of them so fast, without leaving even one alive to tell the story afterwards, must be scarily powerful. And if that someone could possibly turn out to be this Lilith, and _she’s_ the one who's been giving Meg and Tom orders, who's been making them _turn_ all those people, then, well… we have a pretty big problem here.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean replied, nodding. He lifted a hand to rub at his beard as he realized that maybe Crowley actually _didn’t_ have anything to do with this. He was still open to that possibility, of course, but suddenly the hunter wasn’t so sure about it anymore.

“But before we can do anything,” Castiel started, “We need more information. We need to… figure out _why_ this is all happening. And…”

There was a clear hint of hesitancy to Castiel’s voice, which made Dean turn his head to look at him again, only to find a somewhat nervous look in those cobalt eyes.

Dean couldn’t help but frown at the sight of it, unsure what exactly could be the cause of it, though he remained quiet, waiting for Castiel to explain it himself.

And eventually, he did.

“Well, I was hoping you could help us with that.”

Dean took a moment to process those words, to understand the meaning behind them, until it finally clicked in his mind—the reason why Castiel seemed so nervous to voice that idea, why he looked like he was expecting Dean to just snap and start yelling at him just like he’d already done once before.

“Which would probably take a lot more than seventeen days, wouldn’t it?” Dean inquired, giving Castiel an annoyed look. He really should have seen this one coming, and he was pretty annoyed with himself that he hadn't. Really, it hadn't even _crossed_ his mind, for fuck's sake.

Castiel sighed, tearing his eyes away from Dean as he shook his head. “You have to admit that this makes sense, Dean, as unhappy as you may be about it.” He glanced back up at the hunter, his blue eyes wide, almost pleading. “You’re a hunter. You have a lot more experience with… tracking down monsters than we do. Honestly, at this point, we really could use a specialist.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Castiel couldn’t be serious about that. Did he really think this would work? Was he actually suggesting that Dean should just…?

Fuck, but it did make sense, didn’t it?

There was a case here, and definitely not a simple one—Dean couldn’t deny it. And what kind of hunter would he be if he just walked away from it? What kind of hunter would he be if he turned his back on all the innocent, helpless people out there who needed him? How many more people would fall victim to Meg’s sick games if he didn’t do anything about it?

But if he agreed to help Castiel and Rowena with this, if he actually agreed to stick around and work this case with them, then that would mean that he would have to…

Dean stood up from his chair in a jolt, and Castiel jumped in surprise, quickly taking a step toward the hunter, though he froze when Dean raised a hand in the air to stop him.

“Don’t follow me,” Dean let out, his voice rushed and a bit sharp. “I’m not taking off again. I just… I need some freaking air.”

And then he stepped away from Castiel and Rowena without so much as a second glance, walking over to the staircase behind him, then climbing up the steps as quickly as he could and slamming the big metal door at the top of it a little harder than he’d meant to.

He had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t allow himself to stop and think about it once he was out of the Bunker—no, he just kept walking, wishing to put some distance between himself and that place, hoping that would help clear his head a bit. At first, he considered walking all the way to Lebanon, but then he realized that being around people when he was so worked up was probably not a good idea right now, so he ended up taking a right turn into the wooded area that surrounded the Bunker instead, disappearing into the trees.

He walked for a long time—at least an hour, he was sure, but he didn’t feel tired at all, didn’t feel his muscles burning or his breathing growing heavy. Honestly, he felt like he could keep going without stopping for another hour and he wouldn’t even break a sweat, which he tried very hard not to think about.

He only stopped when he reached a small clearing in the trees, with a fallen tree trunk sitting right in the middle of it. He just stood at the edge of the clearing for a moment, trying to decide if he should just keep walking, but eventually he decided that there was just no point to it, since he was already pretty far from the Bunker—or at least far enough, he thought. So with a small sigh, he stepped over to the fallen tree and carefully took a seat on it, glad that the thing wasn’t too old and rotten to hold his weight.

Then he bent his body forward and raised his arms, holding his head in his hands as he let out a frustrated shout.

What the _fuck_ was he supposed to do here? What was the right choice? Should he just ignore this case and go on with his plan to get himself killed, to rid this world of the monster Meg had turned him into, or should he push down all the self-hatred he could feel burning inside of him right now and possibly save a bunch of people? He wasn't even sure that he could actually live with himself for seventeen more days, so how was he supposed to do it for even more than that? What if he snapped and killed someone again? What then? He didn’t think he could carry the weight of yet another innocent death on his shoulders.

Fuck, he didn’t know what to _do._

If his Dad were here, he would know what to do. He would know in a heartbeat, because John always knew what the best course of action was. He always had all the answers, no matter how complicated the situation may be. And he was always so calm about it, too, always so level-headed, no matter how much was at stake. Dean had always admired that about him—and envied it a little bit, too.

He dug his fingers into his hair, pulling lightly at the strands in frustration. Fuck, he really could use a drink right now. He didn’t even feel a slight buzz after the frankly absurd amount of whiskey he’d downed back at that bar, but he was sure that he couldn’t be more than a bottle away from being at least mildly drunk. Maybe he really should have walked all the way to Lebanon, he thought, just so he could go back to that bar. At least he would have gotten to test the limits of his ridiculously high tolerance if he’d gone over there.

But he didn’t stand up from that tree trunk, even if he was very tempted to just head back over to that bar and find out just how much alcohol it would take to get a hybrid drunk. Honestly, he really didn’t feel like moving, so he just stayed there, staring up at the starry night sky and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with his life.

It didn’t take long for his mind to start wandering, though. Apparently, thinking about his Dad had opened up a door in his mind, and soon enough he caught himself thinking about his family.

He wondered how everyone was doing, how they’d taken the news. His Dad must have told them already, right? That whole thing in Superior had happened almost two whole weeks ago, so they _must_ know by now.

Part of Dean was curious about what everyone’s reaction had been, while another part of him ached at the mere thought of it. His heart felt heavy inside his chest as he wondered if his family might be looking for him right now, if they were _hunting_ him. They were all hunters, after all, so he knew he really shouldn't expect anything different from them, but it still hurt to think about it.

Fuck, he hadn’t really thought about that until now, though. Should he get rid of his spare phones? Someone could very easily track him down through them, so maybe he should. But wouldn’t his family finding him here be a good thing? Wasn’t that what he’d been hoping for before, when he’d thought about his Dad hunting him down?

He didn’t even know anymore, and that doubt only frustrated him even more.

He knew one thing for certain, though—if his family was indeed hunting him down in that very moment, if they somehow found him here, he just hoped that Sam wouldn't be the one to kill him. Fuck, the single thought of it already hurt too much.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, just sitting on that tree trunk and thinking about his family, as well as wondering what he should do next, considering the pros and cons of each course of action. He was pretty sure it must have been at least a couple of hours since he'd stormed out of the Men of Letters' Bunker, and he was so lost in his own head, so overwhelmed by all the painful thoughts currently swirling around in his mind that when the sound of a twig snapping behind him filled the air, Dean jumped in surprise, turning around in his seat quickly and without a thought.

And then he rolled his eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh as soon as he realized exactly _who_ was standing there, just a few feet away from the hunter, emerging from the trees behind him like a damn ghost.

“Dude, you really don’t understand the definition of giving people space, do you?” Dean asked, turning back around with an annoyed huff.

More crunching sounds filled the air—more steps being taken, more leaves and twigs being crushed under the soles of a pair of polished black shoes.

“Dean, I…” Castiel paused once he reached the fallen tree trunk, stopping right beside it. Dean didn’t look at him, but he heard Castiel swallow thickly before he let out a low, “I’m sorry.”

Okay, now _that_ was something Dean hadn’t been expecting to hear.

The hunter frowned, turning to look at Castiel, not allowing himself to linger too much on the fact that he could see the guy perfectly even in the darkness that currently shrouded them— _especially_ those ridiculously blue eyes. “What for?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head slowly, weakly, tearing his gaze away from Dean so he could glance over at the trees right in front of them, allowing the hunter see the sharp cut of his jaw. “Because I know what this looks like. You think I’m trying to manipulate you into dropping our deal—or extending the deadline, I suppose—and I… well, I don’t really have a good argument against that. This whole situation is absolutely real, but if you agree to help us, you might not hold me to my end of our deal at the end of the month, and I can't tell you that thought didn’t cross my mind, because I would be lying. But that’s not… that’s not the reason why I’m asking for your help—I can promise you that much. We really _could_ use your expertise here—we actually _need_ it, in fact.”

Dean looked down, clenching his jaw a few times. “It doesn’t matter what you’re trying to do,” he finally admitted, “You do have a point. Can’t really deny that, can I? As much as I hate it, _this_ —me helping you guys—it does make sense. I can’t just let Meg keep doing this. I can’t just sit back and let her kill and turn whoever she wants. I would be a damn awful hunter if I didn't do anything about this. If I just… If I insist on this deal, if I still make you kill me at the end of the month, I’m a fucking coward—that’s what I am.”

“You’re not a coward, Dean.”

The answer came so quickly and sounded so firm, so certain that Dean was a bit surprised, and he turned to give Castiel an incredulous look, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “You don’t even know me,” he pointed out, “How could you possibly know that?”

Castiel hesitated before responding. He seemed to consider Dean for a moment, as though thinking about his answer, either because he wanted to choose his words carefully or he just didn’t know what to say. Either way, he just lingered there beside the fallen tree trunk for a while, completely silent, and when he finally moved, he stepped forward slowly, carefully, like he expected Dean to tell him to stop with every step he took. But the hunter didn’t do that—instead, Dean simply looked away, glancing down at his boots as Castiel slowly lowered himself onto the tree trunk, taking a seat right beside the hunter.

Dean refused to look up at him again during the seconds that followed, but apparently that wasn’t enough to deter Castiel from speaking.

“Why do you hunt, Dean?”

That question seemed to have come out of nowhere, and Dean couldn't help but frown because of it. He turned his head, finally looking at Castiel again so he could give the guy a confused look.

The look he found in those blue eyes was weirdly curious, clearly waiting for an answer.

Dean shrugged. “Well, that’s what my Dad raised me to do. It’s the only thing I’m good at, honestly. Well, that and hustling pool, but they kinda go together if you really think about it.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice sounded oddly firm, “That’s not what I meant.”

A huff jumped from the hunter’s lips before he could stop it, but when he noticed the unnervingly intense look Castiel was giving him, still _waiting_ for an actual, honest response, Dean tore his gaze away again and bowed his head.

He shrugged again. “Why does anybody do it?” he asked, shaking his head. “I mean, who else is gonna do it if we don’t? There are way too many bloodthirsty, psychotic sons of bitches out there who prey on innocent people, who do whatever they want just because they _can._ And we _know_ what’s out there, we _know,_ so it's on us to do something about it, because if we don't… then who will?”

Castiel took a moment to reply, probably so that he could consider the hunter's response, mulling it over in his mind for a brief pause.

“You could have stopped at any moment,” he finally said, “But instead, you’ve chosen to live your life with the single purpose of saving people from monsters, from creatures they have no way to defend themselves against. You put your life at risk every day to save them, and you get nothing in exchange for it—no money, no fame, no recognition. You do it because it's the right thing to do. You’re the _farthest_ thing from a coward there is, Dean.”

Dean had no idea what the hell he could say in response to that, and a heavy silence took over the air around them for a while after Castiel was done talking. The forest around them seemed far too still and quiet—unnervingly so, even at this hour. It was almost like the trees were holding their breaths, like all the animals had stopped moving, hiding away as they waited for the danger to pass.

Briefly, Dean wondered if the animals knew what they were, if they knew to stay away—if somehow, they could _sense_ that they shouldn’t come close to him and Castiel.

Surprisingly, it was Dean who broke that eerie, far-too-heavy silence this time.

"Can I ask you something?"

He glanced at Castiel just as the last word slipped out of his mouth, just in time to watch the blue-eyed hybrid nod.

"Of course," was Castiel's low, gravelly response.

Dean pressed his lips together, taking a moment to decide how to put his thoughts into words, until he finally shrugged. "Why are you so invested in me? In keeping me alive? Like, I get that you want to save everyone—trust me, I'm a hunter, so I _know,_ but... I mean, this isn't the same thing. I'm not some... innocent human who caught some monster's attention—not even close, really. I've got blood on my hands, and not just from that girl back in Superior. I mean, in this line of work... you make one mistake, and people die because of you. I've screwed up before, and people got hurt—people _died._ I just... I really don't deserve this, man. And I mean, again, you don't even _know_ me. Why do you even _care_ if I live or not?"

Castiel took a while to respond. He let out a heavy breath and looked down as soon as Dean was done talking, but the hunter waited patiently until he was ready to speak again.

Eventually, Castiel shook his head. "I guess... I see myself in you, in a way. That didn't really happen with Benjamin and Balthazar, but with you, Dean... You remind me of myself, back when I first turned. And I know you might not agree with me on this, but I do understand what you’re going through.”

Dean couldn’t stop himself from scoffing at that last part. “Yeah, right. You really don’t.”

“I do,” Castiel argued quickly, “More than you know. Sure, our situations aren’t exactly _identical,_ but I did go through this whole process too.”

This time, Dean actually rolled his eyes—and he didn’t even bother trying to hide it. “No, pal, you really don’t. Not having a single _clue_ about what really goes bump in the night and getting turned is a whole lot different than being a hunter for most of your life, growing up _hating_ anything that’s not human, and then getting turned at freaking thirty-five. Seriously, you have no fucking idea what I’m going through.”

Castiel was silent for another pause, and once again, Dean didn’t want to look at him, though for an entirely different reason this time. Seriously, how the fuck could that guy even think that? Their stories were _nothing_ alike. Didn’t he understand that this wasn’t—

“I’m sure you’ve already figured this out,” Castiel started, “But I killed a lot of people back when I first turned. I was on my own for over a _month_ before Rowena and Crowley found me. And even now, two years later, I still… I still _see_ them, I still _dream_ about them—all the people I killed, all the lives I ended. I don’t remember all of their faces, and I don’t even know their names, but I… I remember pieces, blurry flashes that slip into my mind from time and time. And the screams— _God_ , the _screams_. I remember those far too clearly.”

Dean looked up again, only to watch as Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head, a pinch appearing between his brows, like he was in pain somehow.

“I hated myself when I finally figured out what I was,” he continued before Dean could bring himself to say anything, “I truly did. Every single life I took only made me hate myself even more—hate the monster Meg had turned me into—so much that I, too, thought the best thing I could do was rid this world of such a dangerous, cursed creature like me.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “You telling me you wanted to die too?”

“I didn’t just _want_ to kill myself,” Castiel corrected, “I actually tried to.”

Oh. _Oh._

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out, so he just closed it again a couple of seconds later. Of all the things he had expected to hear, _that_ was certainly not one of them, and he had no idea what he could say in response.

“It didn’t work, obviously,” Castiel continued when the hunter failed to find anything to say. His voice sounded even lower than normal now, more serious, a shadow draped over his face, making his features seem a lot more somber. “I had no idea what I was doing, and all I truly accomplished that night was put myself through a whole lot of pain for absolutely no reason. Rowena and Crowley found me soon after that, before I could try again, and by the time I learned how exactly you can kill a hybrid..." He shrugged, "I just didn't want to die anymore.”

Dean licked his lips, glancing down at his hands. Maybe it wasn’t his place to ask Castiel to keep talking about this, but he still did it anyway. He wasn't sure why he was so curious about this, but he chose not to question it. Maybe it was because he could relate to Castiel's story in a way. Yeah, that sounded like a good explanation. “What made you change your mind? About… well, _that._ ”

Castiel pulled in a deep breath before he lifted his head to look at Dean again, and for just a second, for just a fleeting moment, the hunter saw something weird flash in Castiel's eyes, something he had no freaking idea how to read, but that had him growing curious nonetheless.

But then Castiel tore his gaze away, bowing his head and looking down at the ground, and the moment was broken. Castiel still hesitated for another moment, letting a heavy, loaded silence linger in the air between them for a few more seconds, like he was thinking exceptionally hard about how he should respond to the hunter's question.

For some reason, he still refused to look back up at Dean when he finally answered, “Learning that I didn’t have to live like a monster, that I didn’t have to kill to survive, that I could actually  _control_ myself. I hadn’t been able to actually get my hands on any blood bags before I met Rowena and Crowley, even though I'd thought about it before. But Rowena has… methods for taking blood bags from hospitals without getting caught, which Crowley had already been using for a couple of decades at the time, so from that point on, once I started drinking from blood bags, once I started feeding regularly, I… I learned that I really could keep myself under control, that I could live without hurting anyone. I learned I didn't actually have to  _kill_ people to survive. I never bit another person again after I met them.”

“That’s it?” Dean huffed, turning to look at the blue-eyed hybrid again, “You started drinking from blood bags and suddenly everything was fine? Suddenly you were just… okay with this?” For some reason, he wasn’t really buying that.

Castiel shook his head, a small huff jumping from his lips. “No, that wasn’t the only reason why I… decided to keep living like this. I guess you could say I also found… purpose, something to keep me going, something that made me feel like… like I could redeem myself for all the horrible things I did.”

“Right,” Dean nodded, “Hunting down Meg and Tom.”

Castiel nodded slowly, heavily. “I meant what I said when we first met, Dean. Going after Meg and Tom, trying to save the people they try to turn—I know that doesn’t erase all the terrible things I did, but it is a start. But my… conscience is not the only reason why I do it.”

A spark of curiosity came to life inside the hunter's chest, and this time, Dean didn’t try to stomp it out. “Why else, then?” he asked, “Revenge?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirked up in a tiny smile, though he didn’t seem truly amused. For some reason, that smile seemed a bit sad and empty, like it wasn't entirely sincere. Dean wasn’t sure what to make of it. “In the beginning, I must admit I was more driven by revenge than anything else. However, now… It’s just like you said. I can’t just sit back and let Meg do the things she does, not when I can actually try to do something about it. And if I don’t try to stop her, if I don’t try to save the people she takes, then who will?”

For a long moment, Dean was stunned into silence. Several seconds passed, but the hunter remained completely quiet, simply staring at Castiel’s profile as he was suddenly hit with a realization he really hadn’t seen coming, and he had no idea what to do with it, how to _react_ to it.

Maybe he and Castiel weren’t all that different, after all. Maybe Castiel did understand what Dean was feeling—or, well, at least some of it, anyway.

Contrary to what Dean had previously thought, maybe Castiel wasn’t a bad person. Maybe the guy didn’t actually deserve to die.

Those thoughts set a weight over the hunter’s chest, and he had to look away, glancing down at the ground, dragging one of his feet over the dirt, drawing a pattern in it with the sole of his boot. And to think that he’d been planning to kill Castiel along with the others. Apparently, he’d misjudged the guy pretty badly. Seriously, how could have Dean been so far off? That certainly didn’t happen very often.

“Again, I’m not trying to manipulate you, Dean,” Castiel said after the silence had already stretched on for a little too long, “I just… I know what you’re going through. I know what it feels like to hate what you’ve become so much that you think leaving this world is truly the best thing you can do. But I also know that’s not the only solution there is. I know that it gets better with time. And I don’t regret it—choosing to live. I’m actually pretty grateful that Rowena and Crowley made this possible, that they showed me there was another way. I’m glad I failed that night, when I tried to take my own life. I… I’m glad I’m not dead.”

Dean licked his dry lips. “And you think the same could happen to me, is that it?” There was no annoyance in the hunter's voice as he asked it—that was actually a true, honest question, and Dean genuinely wanted to hear the answer. His voice sounded oddly small and hoarse, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed about it.

“I think you’re not thinking straight right now,” Castiel replied easily, “I think you need more time to figure this out, to consider all the variables at play here, to try to see the situation from all angles, just like I did. And in the end, regardless of what exactly your decision turns out to be, once you’ve calmed down and the dust has finally settled, at least you’ll know you’re making the right decision. You’ll have had time to think it all through, and you’ll… you’ll know whatever you decide is what you truly want.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean had to admit, “And you’re really not manipulating me. You’re literally _telling_ me that you’re afraid I might think you’re trying to manipulate me—that kinda ruins the whole manipulating thing. But either way, I… I really can’t deny that you’re right. Both times—back at the Bunker, when we were talking about me helping you out because I’m a hunter and all, but also now…” He shook his head, letting out a big, tired sigh. He wasn’t sure why the hell he was feeling the urge to be so honest in that moment, why he suddenly wanted to open up to this guy—whom he didn’t even know all that well, by the way—but all of a sudden, Dean found that he actually _wanted_ to open up a bit, that he _needed_ to get some things off his chest. And he had no one else to talk to, so what was he supposed to do?

“I meant what I said back at the bar,” Dean let out before he could think better of it, before he could change his mind about saying anything at all, “I really don’t know what I want anymore. A week ago, I was _certain_ that I wanted to die, that I… that I just wanted it over, and that I couldn’t _possibly_ live like this. But now, I… I guess you could say I’m not so sure about it anymore. I really don’t know what to do, so I… I think you might be right. Maybe having more time to think about it might be exactly what I need.”

The hunter pulled in a breath, closing his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate this,” he added, “Fuck, I hate this _so much_. I just… you hear about this stuff from time to time, about some poor hunter fucking up on a hunt and getting turned, but I never… I never thought that could happen to me. I always thought that if things ever went south like that, if I ever screwed up _that_ badly during a job, that I would just end up killed, and not… well, not like _this._ ”

“Well, I never expected to be turned into a vampire-werewolf hybrid either,” Castiel replied, “But unfortunately… neither of us really had a choice on that one.”

Dean simply let out a small huff in response.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dean,” Castiel added when he realized the hunter didn’t plan on adding anything to that. “I have gotten… used to being like this, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish things were different, or that I don’t miss being human. I get why Rowena created this curse—she just wanted to save her son. She did this because she _loves_ him, even if it might not seem that way sometimes, and I have to respect that. But I… I do wish she’d never done it. All the lives that have been lost or… altered beyond repair because of what she did… I really wish I could just... change it all back.”

Dean lifted his head, looking back at Castiel, only to find those big blue eyes staring right back at him, and there was something in them that made the hunter pause. He found such a heavy, intense look in them, so much raw emotion, such open honesty that Dean’s breath got caught in his throat. In that moment, Dean had no doubts that Castiel really meant every single word of that, that he really was being completely honest here.

Dean was certain of it now—Castiel was definitely not a bad person, even if he was a damn freaking hybrid.

And that meant that Dean really should get rid of his spare phones. He didn’t want his family to track him down and find this Bunker, because that certainly wouldn’t end well. Dean still wasn’t sure about the other ones, but in that moment, he realized he really didn’t want to be responsible for Castiel’s death, not now that he knew the guy really wasn’t all that bad.

He made a mental note to take care of that little issue the first chance he got—later tonight, most likely.

A long, heavy silence took place then, and for some reason, the air seemed to have shifted around them, in a way that Dean couldn’t explain, that he didn’t entirely understand. He felt his throat running a bit dry all of a sudden, so he forced himself to look away, cursing himself inside his head.

Dean knew what attraction felt like— _of course_ he knew, considering how many times he'd experienced it throughout his life. And he also knew there were different types of attraction, different ways a person could catch his attention and lure him in. The most common one was physical attraction—that was the one he experienced most often, the one most of his sexual encounters were based on. That one didn't really require actually getting to know someone, though. In fact, it required nothing more than a few heated looks, a little bit of imagination and a brief exchange of words to get Dean jumping into action—or, well, into bed with someone, in that case.

And then there was a different kind, one that he’d only experienced three times before in his life—the kind that wasn’t entirely physical, that had a lot more layers to it, that was so much more complicated, it was honestly a little scary. It was the kind that made him _curious_ about a person, that actually made him want to _know_ more about them, to ask questions and open up and talk about his freaking _feelings_  before they actually did anything.

And he was fairly certain that was the kind of attraction he was feeling right now.

Which was a very, _very_ scary thought—really, it was _terrifying._

And he hadn’t even seen this coming. Sure, he’d noticed how attractive Castiel was right away—again, he had _eyes,_ for fuck’s sake—but that was nothing new. Noticing that the guy was very easy on the eyes was nothing different from whenever someone caught his attention at a bar, whenever he found a potential partner for yet another one night stand, whenever he found himself wondering what someone might look like without any clothes on, or about all the marvelous things they could do with their hands and mouth.

Physical attraction was one thing—a very normal, healthy thing—but this felt like one step further than that, and _that_ was a pretty rare thing for Dean. Again, that had only happened three times in his life, and every single one of those times, things had ended pretty badly.

And he could see no way that this one could possibly turn out differently. Actually, this whole situation had the potential to become a full-on _disaster._

Damn it. How the hell had he allowed this to happen?

“Dean?”

Dean’s head snapped up, and he found Castiel staring at him with those damn blue eyes of his, all wide and worried.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asked, a frown settling into his brows.

Dean swallowed drily, because Castiel looked so honestly worried, his concern so openly written all over his face, so obvious in those ridiculously blue eyes of his, which definitely didn’t help with all the unwanted thoughts currently plaguing the hunter’s mind.

Seriously, why did the guy have to be so damn nice? For fuck's sake.

“No,” Dean replied hoarsely, shaking his head and looking away again, hoping that would help clear his head a little bit, “But I’ll live.” The irony of those words only registered in his mind _after_ he said them, but he didn’t really care about that right now.

“Do you still want to be alone?”

Dean pulled in a breath, before shaking his head weakly. He licked his dry lips, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, to clear his mind a little bit more and force himself to focus on the present, on what was really happening around him in that very moment, and not on all the messy, confused thoughts currently floating around inside his head.

“I wanna change our deal,” the hunter finally announced. “I’ll help you guys track down Meg and figure out what the hell this whole mess is about. I’ll help you see all of this through, end whatever crazy son of a bitch is behind this whole thing. And once everything’s sorted out and this whole mess is finally over, _then_ you’ll kill me.”

As hesitant as he was to do it, Dean forced himself to turn his head again and look back up at Castiel, looking the blue-eyed hybrid right in the eye as he asked, “Deal?”

Castiel swallowed visibly as soon as that last word left the hunter’s mouth, and there was something weird in his eyes, something heavy and intense that Dean had no idea how to read. He was actually quiet for a while, seeming to think the hunter’s words through very carefully, considering them, weighing them in his mind, and at first he seemed so hesitant to respond that Dean thought he wouldn’t agree to the hunter’s terms, that he would insist on just calling their deal off completely.

But in the end, Castiel nodded—albeit very slowly, like he didn't really want to do it. “If that’s what you truly want when this is all over, then…” He swallowed again, and for some reason, he seemed a lot more tense all of a sudden, sitting a lot more stiffly than he'd been only a few seconds prior. Dean wasn't sure what to make of that change, but he chose not to linger too much on it. “Yes. We have a deal.”

Dean nodded, letting out a relieved breath. "Thank you."

“Does that mean you’re staying?” Castiel asked after a short pause, “That you’re not going to take off in the middle of the night again?”

Dean huffed, shaking his head, closing his eyes as he considered his answer.

Honestly, now that he thought about it, Dean really didn’t need to stay here to solve this case. Sure, working with Rowena would definitely make things a lot easier, and everyone here certainly knew a lot more about this whole situation than he did, but Dean was a damn good hunter, and he knew he could handle this on his own. If he wanted to, he could just take off and go work this case alone, solve this whole mystery all by himself. He knew he could do it.

But for some reason, he didn’t _want_ to do that, and he tried very hard not to examine that thought too closely, not to linger on that topic for too long. He might not like what he would find if he did.

So in the end, he nodded, still refusing to look at Castiel. He knew he might regret this later—honestly, he was pretty sure he would—but he still forced his next words out of his mouth before he could think too much about them, before he lost the nerve to actually let them out.

“Yeah, I’m staying.”

***~*~*~*~***

**2011**

***~*~*~*~***

_Vampire._

He could think it now—the word that had been haunting him ever since he'd left Casper, that he’d scoffed at, that he'd written off as completely _impossible_ , even after he’d literally drained those two men dry back in that alley. Now, however, that word was no longer just a dark shadow hovering in the back of his mind, no longer just an empty, utterly _ridiculous_ notion that he absolutely _refused_ to think about.

At some point, he’d realized that there just was no point in denying it, no point in refusing to admit that possibility wasn't as crazy and absurd as he'd originally thought, not after what he did in Wyoming.

And to make it all even worse, it hadn’t stopped after Casper. It had happened again in South Dakota, then in Nebraska, then in Colorado, then here in Kansas.

Everywhere he went, people died—he understood that now. It was a pattern he didn’t seem able to break, that he had no way to control, no matter how hard he fought against it, no matter how hard he tried to put a stop to all this.

Twelve—that was the number currently haunting his thoughts, constantly weighing on his conscience. Ever since he'd left Pontiac, twelve innocent people had been unlucky enough to cross paths with him, and they had paid the price for that with their lives. He'd done everything he could to stop himself, to fight it, to _resist_ , but no matter how hard he tried, whatever monster now resided within him always managed to win in the end. He just wasn't strong enough to fight it, it seemed.

He could still see their faces, all twelve of them. He could still see the fear in their eyes when they realized that he was dangerous—that he wasn't _human_. He could still hear their hearts beating inside their chests, growing panicked, desperate, frantically hammering against their ribcages as some of them had begged for their lives. He remembered how a few of them had tried to run, to somehow escape from him and save themselves.

But none of them had actually succeeded. Not one of the people the beast inside of him had chosen had actually managed to escape, and they'd all died exactly the same way—struggling against him, screaming for help, clawing uselessly at his skin, pushing and buckling and crying as they continued to beg for their lives, as they tried to free themselves from his hold, as pointless as that turned out to be, until they all went limp in his hands, growing completely silent once he was done draining every single drop of life from their bodies, falling to the ground like a ragdoll the moment he let go of them.

He remembered all of it, every single detail. The memories haunted him, gnawing at his conscience, constantly reminding him of what he'd done—not only during his waking hours, but also in his dreams. He was barely even sleeping at this point, his nights far too long and restless, spent with him tossing and turning on countless motel beds, staring up at the dirty ceiling as he wallowed in self-hatred and shame, his guilt heavy and sharp inside his chest—painful, even.

At some point, he'd considered trying to get his hands on some blood bags, figuring that should be enough to keep the monster inside of him at bay, because blood was blood, right? It shouldn't matter if it was fresh or not, should it? Sure, the beast would probably notice it and complain, would probably even fight him on it, but as long as that was enough to allow Castiel to stay in control of his own body, he figured he could deal with it.

However, he'd dropped that idea soon after it'd first crossed his mind, for two main reasons. One—blood bags weren't exactly easy to come by. It wasn't like he could just buy them somewhere or something, so if he wanted to drink from them, then he would need to  _steal_ those from a hospital, and he just couldn't bring himself to be okay with something like that. Most of the time, hospitals didn't exactly have any blood to spare, and that meant that he would be taking something that was already pretty difficult to come by, that he would be stealing something that was meant to save people's _lives_. And if he did that regularly, if he took too much, he might end up killing people anyway, even if indirectly. And two—he wasn't even sure how he was supposed to do it in the first place. He didn't think he could actually manage to do steal something from a hospital without getting caught, especially something like blood bags, and that was a risk he just wasn't willing to take, for the same reasons why he'd decided against turning himself in back in Casper.

So he kept thinking, kept trying to come up with another solution, with another way that he could feed the beast without actually hurting another person, until he'd finally realized that there was something else he could try.

Animal blood should work too, right?

Now, don't get him wrong—he wasn't exactly happy about _that_ particular idea. The single thought of it was already enough to make his stomach turn, and he realized that option was far from ideal. But by that point, he was overly aware of the fact that he was very quickly running out of options, so he had no other choice but to give that one a try.

So he'd swallowed down all of his reservations and tried drinking animal blood, hoping that would be enough to keep himself under control, to satiate the beast inside of him enough so that he didn't have to kill anyone, so that he could at least survive without hurting another person. Again, blood was blood, right?

Well, as it turned out, it just wasn't that simple, and he'd only lasted a week on the animal stuff. He'd even tried different types—deer, cow, chicken, pig, coyote, bear and mountain lion, but even though the carnivores' blood was a little easier to force down his throat, the animal blood was so freaking disgusting—both the taste _and_ the smell—that he just couldn't keep it down. It smelled truly rotten, and every single mouthful tasted like he was trying to drink sewer water, so maybe it shouldn't be much of a surprise that his body just didn't seem to accept it at all—he would throw it all up right away, every single time, not keeping any of it down in the end.

But he'd insisted, of course, because what other option did he have? He couldn't keep killing people. And he was so scared of hurting another person, of losing control again that he'd pretty much isolated himself, living out in a wooded area in the heart of Nebraska for a whole week, miles away from any kind of civilization, forcing himself to drink that disgusting animal blood every single day, until his body just wouldn't accept it anymore, until he'd finally snapped and wandered over to the closest highway without truly consenting to it, without even realizing that he was doing it. He didn't even feel like he had full control of his body by that point, and he'd simply watched as the beast wandered onto the road and forced the first car that drove by to stop, then proceeded to drain the two people it found inside the vehicle dry in just a matter of a few minutes.

And when Castiel finally came back to himself, as he'd looked down at the two people lying dead on the asphalt by his feet, he'd come to a conclusion.

He couldn't control himself. He couldn't stop this. He couldn't win this fight. He really wasn't strong enough.

But he needed to put an end to this, and he needed to it fast, before he hurt anyone else, before the beast took over completely and he lost himself to this, before he actually _became_ the monster that seemed to be living inside of him now.

He needed to stop this before it was too _late._

However, there were a few little issues with that plan. Apparently, the sun had absolutely no effect on him. He didn't burst into flames and turn into a pile of ash when he came out during a sunny day—he didn't even have freaking sunburn or some kind of skin allergy or anything of the sort, so apparently all those vampire stories had gotten everything wrong. Garlic also did absolutely nothing to him, much to his dismay, **so that left him with only one possible way to fix this whole mess.**

Castiel glanced down at the object he was holding in his hand, tightening his grip around it, adjusting it in his grasp. The slim, wooden body was no more than a foot long and just a little over an inch wide in diameter, but it had a pretty sharp, pointy end that he'd spent several hours working on, and he was pretty proud of it.

It was weird to think that he'd spent so much time crafting it, so many hours devoted to making sure that it was perfectly shaped, that it would turn out just the way he wanted it. It was weird to think that he'd worked so hard on something that was meant to kill him.

Castiel closed his eyes at that last thought, pulling in a big, deep breath as he tilted his head backwards, resting it against the wooden bedframe right behind him.

There was no point in stalling for any longer, on putting it off for even another minute. He'd already waited enough.

Outside, he could hear laughter, happy chatter filling the air almost constantly as everyone prepared themselves for the countdown, ready to welcome the new year, to _celebrate_ it. Most of them sounded excited, making promises to stop smoking, or study more, or work harder, or become more fit and healthy—all of them filled with hope and happiness at the thought of a new beginning.

Meanwhile, Castiel had no plans of living to see the next year, or even the next _day_.

Briefly, he wondered if his family was celebrating the New Year back in Pontiac, if they were all gathered over at his mother's house. He wondered what they were all doing in that very moment. He hoped they weren't sad, that he hadn't ruined their festivities, that he hadn't put a damper on something that should have been a happy occasion—or, well, as happy as it could have been without Jimmy and Amelia, anyway. But he'd been gone for over three weeks, so they must be at least a little bit better by now, right?

Castiel could only hope so.

It really hurt him to think that he would never see them again, though. He would never go to another family gathering, would never sit down with the people he loved the most in this world to enjoy his mother's cooking and spend some quality time together. He would never laugh with his siblings again, or be a subject to Gabriel's relentless teasing.

He would never get to help Claire recover from what'd happened to her, to help her _heal,_ even if he'd promised her that he would always be there, for whatever she needed.

He would never hear his son laugh again, or see him smile, or watch as his eyes lit up with excitement as he told his father about the last book he read. He would never hug Jack again, would never smell the sweet scent of the baby shampoo he loved so much in his hair. He wouldn't get to help Jack as he slowly progressed into adulthood, wouldn't be there to help his son with all his troubles, wouldn't be there to support him whenever he ran into a problem. Jack was pretty quirky, and he didn't have many friends, but Castiel had always been there for him, and he'd always done everything he could to make his son feel better. He'd always made sure that Jack knew he was special and loved, and that he would never be alone. He'd made that same promise to Jack years ago—that he would _always_ be there for him, for whatever he needed, no matter what happened.

But as it turned out, Castiel wouldn't be able to keep any of those promises.

However, he knew he was doing the right thing here. He was doing this to keep them safe, and at least that thought was enough to alleviate the pain just a little bit. It made him feel stronger, made him believe that he could actually do this. Even though he'd turned into this dangerous, bloodthirsty creature, he was still rational enough to make a decision that would protect his family, which meant that he was still himself, to some degree, but he had no idea how long that would last. What if at some point, he really lost himself completely to this? What if he waited too much and the monster completely took over, and for some reason, it decided it wanted to go back to Pontiac? What if this beast was twisted enough that it thought it was entitled to go back to Illinois and hurt his family, just because it could? Just to make him suffer even more?

He couldn't allow that to happen. He couldn't take that risk.

Yeah, he really was doing the right thing here, just like he'd done the right thing by leaving. His only regret was that he hadn't actually said goodbye to his family when he'd left; that he hadn't even bothered to leave a note; that he hadn't gotten to tell them that they didn't need to worry about him, and that he definitely didn't want them to go after him. He had a feeling his family wouldn't stop looking for him anytime soon, since they probably had no idea what'd even happened to him in the first place.

But at least this would fix _that_ little issue, too.

He wondered how long it would take for someone to find his body in here, for the police to get in contact with his family and tell them what'd happened. He wondered if they would be confused, because this was certainly not a normal way to die. He wondered what they would think of him, once they figured out that he'd actually killed himself. He knew that they would still grieve and cry over him for a long time, and he hated to be the cause of so much pain—he absolutely  _hated_ it—but there really was nothing he could do about that. This needed to be done, for their own sake. They wouldn't understand it, of course, but he really was doing this _for_ them— _and_ for all the innocent people out there, all the lives that would be lost if he stayed alive, if he allowed this monster to live for even a day longer.

And anyway, this was already better than having his family find out the truth about what'd happened to him, about what he'd become—there really was no denying that.

At this point, Castiel really wished that injection had simply killed him, just like it'd done to his brother. If he'd simply died back in that room, if his heart had simply given out just like Jimmy's had, so many lives would have been saved—and not just of the people he'd killed, but of the ones Meg had killed because of him, too. So much pain could have been avoided if he hadn't survived that injection.

And he wouldn't need to be doing this now, too. He would have just... _died_. It would have been quick and easy, and then this whole nightmare would have been avoided, and he wouldn't be in this situation right now. He wouldn't be feeling like this.

Fuck, he still wasn't even sure that he could actually _do_ this.

His eyes started stinging, burning as tears started filling them up, and a small sob jumped from Castiel's lips before he could try to stop it, but that was all he allowed. He shook his head quickly after that, swallowing down all the pain and sorrow he could feel bubbling up inside of him, because he couldn't let his emotions get to him so strongly. He couldn't allow his resolve to waver here, not even for a single second. He couldn't change his mind about this. It had to be done, before he killed anyone else, before he ended another life.

Pulling in another deep breath to steady himself, Castiel opened his eyes, then adjusted his grip on the wooden object once more, lifting his other hand and wrapping it around the long, slim body of it as well, holding it more firmly than before.

All those vampire stories may have been wrong about the sun and the garlic, **but there was no way he could survive a wooden stake to the heart, right?**

He didn't allow himself to think about it, didn't allow himself to hesitate. He just cleared his mind and moved his hands quickly, as fast as he could manage it, pulling them toward his bare chest and pressing the tip of the stake to the spot right above his heart with enough strength to break the skin. It hurt a bit, but definitely not as much as he'd expected it to. Still, his entire body tensed up as everything inside of him screamed for him to give up, to  _stop,_ but he did his best to ignore all of it. Without a moment of hesitation, before his resolve could waver, Castiel gritted his teeth together and kept going, kept pushing the stake in deeper and deeper until it finally reached his heart.

And _that_ hurt. It hurt _a lot,_ but he didn't let the pain stop him, even if by that point, his hands had started shaking and his grip around the stake had grown considerably weaker. He pushed the stake in until he just couldn't do it anymore, until the pain grew truly unbearable. He let his hands fall when that happened, coming to rest on either side of him on the bed as he gasped for air, struggling to breathe. He could taste blood in his mouth, but it was his own this time, thankfully.

And then he just sat there, waiting for it to end, for the darkness dancing in the corners of his vision to finally claim him and end this nightmare, to take away all the pain and guilt he could feel inside of him.

But as the minutes started going by, the pain didn't stop. He didn't slowly fade away, didn't slip into unconsciousness to never, ever wake up again. He didn't see a white light, or his life flashing before his eyes.

No, all he felt was pain for however much time passed, however long he sat there with that stake buried in his chest. He felt a bit lightheaded, and he was pretty sure he'd passed out at some point, his mind feeling fuzzy and weird from the lack of oxygen, but he didn't actually die.

He waited until he heard fireworks, until he heard loud voices cheering outside, happy and celebrating, because that meant that he'd already waited for over an hour, and he was still here, still breathing—still _alive_.

So apparently a wooden stake to the heart wasn't enough to kill him either.

Castiel huffed at that thought, but he didn't linger on it, because that stake was still buried in his chest, which meant that he was still in quite a bit of pain—and for absolutely no reason, apparently—so his mind wasn't exactly working properly at the moment.

He should probably fix that, he decided. There was no point in insisting on this any longer, not when that stake was clearly not enough to kill him.

Gritting his teeth together just like before, Castiel lifted both of his hands and wrapped them around the stake, getting a good grip on it before he started pulling it out. It hurt just as much as pushing it in had, but once again, he didn't let the pain stop him, and soon enough he was dropping the bloody stake onto the sheets right next to him, gasping for air as soon as the stake was out of his body. He closed his eyes again as he panted, wondering how the hell he was conscious if his heart wasn't even beating anymore. Or was it still beating? He couldn't feel or hear it, but he wasn't sure about that, and he was still in way too much pain to try to figure that out, anyway.

It took a while for the pain to fade, but it did eventually, and by that point, Castiel was certain that his heart was beating again. It either hadn't stopped at all, or it had, but it'd just started up again soon enough. That didn't make any sense at all, of course, but by now he'd realized that there really was no point in trying to understand how any of this was possible. _Nothing_ about this made any sense.

So instead of lingering on that subject, he just shook his head, letting out a frustrated breath as he raised his hand to touch the spot where he'd driven the stake into his own chest, rubbing against the place where there should definitely be a mark on his skin, right where the stake had entered his body. He felt blood there, of course, but much to his confusion, the skin in that area didn't feel wounded at all. He opened his eyes as soon as he realized that, glancing down at his naked torso, only to find that there really was no sign of a wound anywhere on his chest, just a little bit of blood coating the left side of it. The skin there seemed... untouched, perfectly smooth, as though nothing had happened at all.

As though the wound had healed far too quickly, in just a matter of a few minutes, not leaving even a scar behind.

 **If he'd had any doubts about this before, those doubts were long gone by now.** He wasn't sure if he was really a vampire and all those vampire stories had simply gotten everything wrong, or if he was something else entirely, some other creature that also drank blood but that wasn't affected by the sun or by garlic, something he'd never even heard about and that definitely didn't die easy.

But regardless of what exactly he was, he knew one thing for certain, without a sliver of doubt.

He wasn't human anymore, and he had no way to change that, no way to fix it. There was nothing he could do about this. He couldn't even kill himself, for fuck's sake.

A shaky breath flowed out of his mouth without his permission, accompanied by a big, ugly sob. The tears came soon after that, but this time, he didn't even bother trying to hold them back. He was scared, not to mention angry and frustrated that his plan had failed so terribly, and instead of holding it all in, of bottling it all up inside of him just like he'd been doing up until now, he just let the tears fall freely as sob after sob rocked his body, as he choked on air and struggled to breathe, as he wailed in despair like a freaking child.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he _could_ do. He couldn't go on like this. He couldn't... He just  _couldn't_...

But how the hell could he fix this? How was he supposed to put an end to this when he couldn't even kill himself? When he wasn't even sure  _what_ he was? And what was he supposed to do _now?_ He knew it was only a matter of time until the beast became hungry again, until it made him _kill_ again. But what the hell could he do about that? Could he even learn to control himself? And if he couldn't, what then? How could he...? He really couldn't...

There were far too many questions running through his head, too many thoughts piling up in his mind, but he didn't have the answer to any of them, and he had no idea where or how he could possibly find it. He didn't even know where to start looking.

And instead of thinking about it, instead of trying to figure it all out right now, he did the only thing he could do in that moment. As useless as it may seem, even if it wouldn't actually solve any of his problems, it truly was the only thing he _could_ do. He hadn't done it until now, hadn't _allowed_ himself to do it, but he felt so utterly helpless right now, so broken and angry and _scared_ that he was unable to fight it any longer. It was like a dam had burst inside of him, flooding him with so much pain and fear and frustration that he had no other choice but to just let it happen, to just let it all out, hoping it would at least make him feel even a tiny bit better, that it might help him cope somehow.

So he cried. He cried until he couldn't breathe anymore, until he ran out of tears, until all the noise outside ceased completely and silence engulfed everything around that motel. And even after he was done, after all the wetness covering his cheeks had dried away, when all he found himself able to do was sniff pathetically from time to time, he still didn't feel better. If anything, he felt even worse than before, and as he sat there, just staring blankly at the room around him, he became painfully aware of something.

He'd never felt so alone and helpless in his entire life.

The single thought of it was already enough to make his chest feel heavier, tighter, the weight of that notion truly _suffocating,_ because it was the truth, and he had no way to deny it. He really didn't have anyone anymore. He could never, _ever_ go back home, even if at this point, that was exactly what he wanted to do. In that moment, he just wanted to pack up all of his things again and take off toward Pontiac, to go back to his family, to have _someone_  he could talk to, someone to  _help_ him. He couldn't do this alone. He didn't _want_ to do this alone.

But he knew he couldn't go back. If there was so much guilt and self-hatred bubbling up inside of him now that he could barely even _breathe_ , if he despised himself so much that he couldn't even  _look_ at himself in the mirror anymore when all the people he'd killed had been nothing but strangers to him, he couldn't even imagine what would happen to him, how he would _feel_ if he hurt someone he cared about, someone he _loved_.

And that was why he could never set foot in Pontiac again. No matter what happened, even if he had to continue on like this, he could never go back home. He could never see his family again. As it turned out, leaving truly had been the best thing he could have done, and he hadn't even known the real reason for that at the time. Apparently, he was just as dangerous as Meg—maybe even more, since he had absolutely no control over himself. It would just be too easy for him to hurt the people he loved—or _worse_ —and he just couldn't take that risk. He couldn't even bear the thought of it. Just imagining it, just _knowing_ that it truly was a possibility, that he truly was capable of doing something so awful to the people he loved the most in this world already hurt _so much_  that his breath actually shook and nausea coiled in his gut. Just _thinking_ about it hurt even more than driving that stake through his own heart had.

But unfortunately, just like the wooden stake, all the pain and hurt that was currently burning inside of him, the ache that ran so deep it seemed to reach down to his very soul—none of it was enough to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed Warning **(with spoilers!)** : Dean still wants to die, and right now, he still insists on his deal with Castiel, even though he's no longer so certain that's what he truly wants. Also, during a conversation between the two, Castiel opens up a bit and tells Dean that he tried to kill himself once, back when he first turned, but he didn't succeed because he didn't know what he was doing.
> 
> And in the last scene of this chapter, we actually see Castiel's suicide attempt. In that flashback, Cas just can't take it anymore, and he can't stop thinking about all the people he killed, so he decides the best thing he can do is kill himself. So he drives a wooden stake through his own heart, **which isn't enough to kill him,** and at the end when he doesn't die, he just pulls the stake back out and breaks down crying. I mean it, guys— **that scene is heavy, and graphic, and really freaking sad,** so if you don't feel okay with reading something like that, if it bothers you even a tiny little bit, **please don't read it.** You can skip that scene easily by following the instructions listed below:
> 
> (please read all the instructions before you decide what you want to do)
> 
> If you want to skip **both** the suicide attempt _and_ some of what comes before it, which is basically **a whole lot of heavy, super freaking sad, suicidal thoughts** , just stop reading when you reach the following phrase: **"so that left him with only one possible way to fix this whole mess."**
> 
> If you only want to skip the _actual_ suicide attempt, stop reading at: **"but there was no way he could survive a wooden stake to the heart, right?"**
> 
> No matter which one of those two options you chose, you can start reading again at: **"If he'd had any doubts about this before, those doubts were long gone by now."** However, please keep in mind that there are a few mentions of the suicide attempt after that point, and Castiel is still in a very, **very** bad place mentally.
> 
> All three of those phrases are in bold in the actual chapter text, so you really can't miss them.
> 
> -
> 
> New Additional Tag: _Suicide Attempt_
> 
> To be honest, I didn't even plan to write that scene into the story. I was just going to have it mentioned a couple of times, but that was it, which is why I didn't add this tag until now. But then I decided to write that scene as an experiment, and once it was done, I realized it was a very important scene for Cas, and I just couldn't bring myself to leave it out of the story. However, I know that's a pretty important warning that should have been there from the very beginning, and I apologize that it wasn't added until now.
> 
> -
> 
> Next up: The hunt for Meg begins! I wonder how that's gonna go? ;) ;)
> 
> Also, I wonder how Dean's family is handling this whole thing? Hmm...
> 
> Have I mentioned I really love comments? ;)
> 
> <3


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